


Secrets and Lies

by SuePokorny



Series: The Cardinal Mazarin Files [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-09 12:11:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3249191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuePokorny/pseuds/SuePokorny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An attack on the palace leaves two Musketeers wounded. While the others attempt to discover who was behind the assault and who the real target was, Aramis encounterst someone he'd been longing to meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

This is a sequel of sorts to my first Musketeers fic “For Whom the Bells Toll” and the second in a series of four stories that follow season one, but not the story of season 2 as shown on screen. Kind of my own slightly AU version of season 2. You don’t really have to have read “For Whom the Bells Toll” to understand this, but it may help. A big thank you to my beta, Sharlot, who makes these stories better with her insights. I’m lucky to have her!

Secrets and Lies  
Chapter 1

“I bet Porthos is having a fit not being able to partake in all this.” D’Artagnan craned his neck to get a look at the big Musketeer, stationed along with Aramis further down the ballroom, near the King. They were on guard duty at Louis’ request, although the young Gascon believed they were there more for show than anything else. The King liked to show off, and what better way to impress the Lords and Ladies of the court than to have trained Musketeers standing guard over the festivities? It was a way for him to demonstrate his power to his subjects, giving them a show of muscle and a feeling of security at the same time.

After all, this wasn’t just another ball. The King had decided to open his gambling tables to the members of the court. Livres were flowing freely, the ballroom lined with gaming tables where the rich nobility of Paris were currently throwing their excess money away on games of chance. Even if Porthos had been able to join in, the stakes these people were nonchalantly tossing onto the tables would have been decidedly out of his league.

“It’s good for him.” Athos said dryly. “Perhaps Porthos will learn something.” 

D’Artagnan laughed, glancing at the older Musketeer. “Like how to lose gracefully? Or how to win without cheating?”

“Either would suffice.”

He and Athos were stationed nearer to the main doors, observing the people entering the grand ballroom. Although they were not in charge of security – Cardinal Mazarin’s Red Guard claiming that honor – they were nonetheless running a practiced eye over every guest, making sure none had slipped a weapon or any other type of threat past the guards.

D’Artagnan scanned the crowd when he felt a slight change in Athos’ stance, noting the sigh of frustration and a sudden tensing of the man’s shoulders. His gaze shifted to a guest approaching them with fair hair, close-set eyes and a scar across his cheek. His richly brocaded cloak was fastened with a red-jeweled clasp, his lips turned up in a sardonic grin, his eyes locked on Athos.

He stopped directly in front of them, his lips pursed, looking a tense Athos up and down.

“La Fere,” the man finally said, his voice holding more than a touch of disdain. “I wondered if I would see you again at one of these some day.” His eyes moved to the pauldron on the Musketeer’s shoulder. “Although I hardly expected to see you like this.”

“Rochefort,” Athos acknowledged in a cool tone. He didn’t elaborate, but held the man’s gaze, no emotion showing on his face. 

“I heard you had joined the Musketeers,” the man continued, unfazed. “I must say I was surprised, someone of your stature lowering yourself to be a mere soldier.” He looked around the ballroom, noting the rest of the company decked out in their blue cloaks and fine leathers. “Of course, it would seem you are more ornamentation than anything.”

Athos merely tilted his head and smiled tolerantly. “We serve the King, as do you.”

“Yes, yes. That is true.” Rochefort returned the smile, but d’Artagnan noticed it did not reach his eyes. The blond man let his eyes shift to d’Artagnan for a moment, quickly dismissing him as unimportant, and act nobility must learn from birth. D’Artagnan bristled at the rebuff, wondering how someone shorter was able to look down his nose at him. It was as mystifying as it was annoying. Rochefort returned back to Athos, whose blank expression held firm. “I’m sure we will have an opportunity to speak later, catch up on old times.”

“Perhaps.”

Rochefort grinned sardonically, then stepped away, making his way to the gaming tables.

“Old friend?” d’Artagnan asked as soon as the blond man was out of hearing range.

“Hardly,” Athos responded. “The Compte de Rocheforf and I are distant cousins. We were thrust together on occasion. We even shared the same fencing instructor when we were children.”

D’Artagnan’s brows rose at the unexpected revelation, having learned the hard way why Athos kept his past buried under bottles of wine and layers of guilt. To have the older man give up information about his life so easily surprised the young Gascon and he found himself eager to hear more.

“Is he any good?”

“He’s… adequate. He wasn’t the first born son, so he didn’t receive the same attention to his training.”

“He doesn’t seem to like you much.”

Athos raised a brow. “The feeling is mutual, I assure you.”

“If he isn’t first born,” d’Artagnan observed, “how did he become Comte?”

Athos sighed. With little else to occupy their time, he had scant opportunity to escape d’Artagnan’s curiosity. “A few months after his father died, his older brother mysteriously disappeared. After a respectful amount of time, Rochefort had his brother declared dead and assumed the title.” 

D’Artagnan frowned. “That sounds suspicious.”

Athos nodded, his eyes tracking the Comte as he worked his way to the far side of the room. “It was quite the scandal, but with no proof of foul play, law was on his side.”

“You don’t believe him innocent?”

“I always suspected he had something to do with the disappearance. His brother was a good man, as was his father. But Rochefort… there was very little he desired that he could not find a way to obtain. Removing his own brother simply because he stood in his way, is not beyond his capacity.”

D’Artagnan nodded and watched as Rochefort placed a bet, his eyes scanning the room as if searching for someone. When his gaze fell upon the Queen and the Cardinal, who stood near one of the tables, a scowl crossed his face and d’Artagnan stiffened instinctively.

“If he is here,” Athos continued. “I assure you, it is not for mere entertainment.”

D’Artagnan nodded, silently vowing to keep the man under surveillance.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos sighed for the hundredth time in the last ten minutes, shifting on his feet as he tried in vain to ease the ache in his back. One of the worst duties of a Musketeer was to be a show dog for the royal court when they decided to have a lavish affair and invite all the nobility from nearby provinces. As it was, a ball or soiree was usually excruciatingly dull, yet tolerable, especially since they were always able to sneak a bottle of fine wine or two from the proceedings, not to mention being able to ogle all the noble women trussed up in their finest.

Aramis usually enjoyed the latter more than the former, but who was Porthos to judge? If the marksman wanted to smile and bow and flirt with the ladies of the court – away from their husbands’ notice, of course – far be it for him to begrudge his friend a little fun. Of course, Aramis’ brand of fun had often come back to bite them in the ass, so it had fallen to him to keep his over-amorous friend in line as much as possible.

But tonight Aramis’ attention had been focused on one woman alone – and that worried Porthos even more than his friend’s usual roving eye. Ever since Aramis had confessed his liaison with the Queen, Porthos and Athos had done whatever they could to keep him busy, to keep his mind off her and the son she had given birth to a short time ago. Aramis was convinced the child was his son, and Athos and Porthos had given up trying to dissuade him from his belief. Whether it was true or not, it would be suicide if anyone else should suspect. Aramis would be hanged for treason, they would be shot for abetting and the Queen and the Dauphin would be exiled or put to death. So despite their friend’s overwhelming desire to be near the child, they had done everything within their power to thwart him – for his own good, of course. 

Athos had seen to it that Aramis had not been assigned duty at the palace, and Porthos had kept his attention diverted from his desires by insisting on training, drinking and fighting. Porthos was convinced Aramis knew exactly what they were doing, but, so far, he hadn’t fought them or called them on their subterfuge. He took that as a sign they were doing the right thing. He just hoped they could keep it up. Their plan had worked well, until this event had been announced and Treville had stated that all available Musketeers would be called upon to attend at the King’s insistence.

If he’d only had to watch out for Aramis it wouldn’t have been quite so bad, but this evening’s entertainment was one that hit Porthos right where it hurt. The gaming tables had been set up across the expansive ballroom, and the clinking of coin was setting his gut afire with the need to join in. Currently, he was watching three older men tossing enough coin to buy a week’s worth of bread onto a table, laughing casually -- as only the rich can do -- when they lost the money. Porthos growled under his breath at the audacity of the men, knowing he could beat them – albeit with a few cards up his sleeve – if given the chance.

“Easy, Porthos,” Aramis’ voice was pitched low, just loud enough to carry across the din of the ballroom. “You’ve neither the coin nor the station to join this game.”

“Still doesn’t make it any easier to watch.”

The Spaniard chuckled, the first sign of amusement he’d been able to garner all evening. “Be thankful all you’re able to do is watch, my friend. These people would take everything you owned and laugh while doing it.”

Oi,” Porthos agreed. “Money is wasted on the rich.”

He glanced at his friend, disheartened to see his eyes tracking Queen Anne as she made her way across the room, stopping to address the many men and women who bowed down in deference of her position. She was decked out in an elaborate gown made of a golden material that shimmered when she moved. Porthos had to admit it was quite a striking effect, worthy of his companion’s attention, though he doubted Aramis had even noticed what she was wearing. She smiled graciously at each courtier, her eyes drifting to the Musketeer at the edge of the crowd every few moments. 

Porthos sighed again. 

“Will you please stop that?”

Porthos frowned at the Spaniard. “I would if you would stop that.”

Tearing his eyes away from his objective, Aramis grinned at him innocently. “Why Porthos, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

Porthos growled again. “You know exactly what I’m talkin’ about. Quit smiling at her.”

“She’s the Queen, Porthos. If she smiles at me, it’s only good manners to return the gesture.”

“Except when that gesture could get us hanged.”

“We cannot be hanged for smiling.”

Porthos caught himself before he sighed again. “Well, just… stop.”

“If it will make you stop sighing,” Aramis chuckled. “I will gladly stop smiling.” 

Porthos turned his head to see his friend smile once again in the direction of the Queen.

“Then what the hell was that?”

“That, my friend, was more of a rakish grin.”

Before he could respond, he noticed Aramis tense, his grin disappearing suddenly as his eyes locked on one of the tables only a few over from where they stood. Following his line of sight, Porthos watched as the Queen stopped by a bessett table, congratulating Cardinal Mazarin on his win. 

Mazarin had recently replaced Cardinal Richelieu after his death as France’s First Minister. The man had already tried to frame Aramis for Richelieu’s murder and they suspected he was in league with their nemesis – and Athos’ wife – Milady de Winter. It had become apparent very quickly that Mazarin was no friend to the Musketeers, and even Captain Treville had cautioned them in their dealings with him. They had not been able to prove Mazarin’s involvement in his predecessor’s death, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone has killed to advance, and they had no doubt Mazarin had plenty more tricks up his red velvet sleeve.

With a dramatic flair, the Cardinal kissed the Queen’s hand and then pushed all of his winnings to the center of the table, instructing the dealer to pass out the cards for another round. A small crowd had gathered at the table, intrigued by the size of the Cardinal’s bet. As the hands were dealt and played, a small cheer went up alongside a smattering of applause as the Cardinal’s cards triumphed and the dealer pushed an even larger pile of coins in his direction.

In a loud voice, Mazarin claimed it was the Queen’s presence that endowed him with such luck and insisted on sharing his winnings with her. Anne blushed, declining the offer graciously, but the Cardinal, who had apparently been drinking some of the King’s fine wine throughout the evening, stubbornly insisted, causing the onlookers to applaud his generosity.

Aramis narrowed his eyes and Porthos placed a hand on his friend’s arm, effectively pinning the smaller man in place. 

“Let ‘er handle it,” he whispered. “She’s the Queen. She can deal with the likes of Mazarin.”

Aramis nodded tightly and Porthos could feel the coiled muscle of his arm relax. He returned his gaze to the table and was met with the sight of the Cardinal wrapping one arm around the Queen and leading her toward another table. The young woman seemed to be enjoying the attention and Porthos wasn’t sure if his Aramis’ harsh breathing was due to jealousy or heartache.

“Easy, Aramis,” he said in an echo of the younger man’s earlier words, his tone soft, not scolding. “It ain’t yours to defend.”

“I know.” The whispered sentiment held such a sadness that Porthos’ own throat tightened in sympathy.

They knew it was going to be difficult – Aramis being in close proximity to the Queen, knowing the child he considered his own was asleep somewhere within the walls of the palace, so close and yet so far out of his reach he may as well have been across the sea. Aramis had been dealing with it as best he could, but was it an impossible undertaking? Was it an attainable goal to expect him to simply watch them from afar? Porthos knew he had to keep his friend in check, but he couldn’t help reaching out and squeezing the man’s arm in support.

“I’m all right,” Aramis looked at him with a poignant smile. “Thank you, my friend. Without you and Athos –“

Before Aramis could finish professing his gratitude, a loud explosion rent the air, the large ornate doors at the far end of the ballroom suddenly blew in off their hinges and Porthos felt a waft of scorching air blow by him. Glass shattered, wood splintered and the screams of the courtiers were muffled as the concussion of the explosion momentarily dulled his senses. He was aware of the royal guests moving in confusion, and noticed Aramis charging through the sudden chaos toward the Queen. 

“Get the King!” Aramis yelled, his voice muted in Porthos’ ears.

As he quickly located Louis at a table directly to the left of his position, Porthos turned his attention back to the doorway in time to see a group of men, cloth tied around their faces, enter the ballroom, harquebus raised at the ready. Drawing his own pistol, he yelled for everyone to get down, aimed toward the nearest bandit and fired, moving simultaneously toward the table the King was now ducking behind.

The bandits let lose a volley of gunfire and Porthos heard a sharp cry of pain beyond him followed by a scream, the muffle in his ears having cleared, allowing the full cacophony of the attack to register in his brain. Barreling around the other nobles cowering beneath the tables, Porthos threw himself bodily over the King, silently praying the rest of his friends were safe and still able to fight.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

As the first bandit entered the room, Athos pulled his sword and engaged, killing the man with a thrust through his chest with little resistance. The attackers were not well trained, but they had numbers, and it was apparent they didn’t care who they hurt, giving them an advantage the Musketeers did not have. As Captian Treville began ushering the closest patrons toward the doors at the far side of the ballroom, Athos began to assess the situation, deciding on a tactical plan to defend the King. He knew Aramis and Porthos were somewhere near Louis and trusted his comrades to protect both the King and Queen with their lives. With that knowledge, he felt free to concentrate on the bandits who were still spilling in through the door, quickly ordering d’Artagnan to assemble the soldiers into a line, effectively becoming a human barricade between the attackers and the fleeing nobility behind them. A few of the bandits had been armed with harquebus, getting off some shots before dropping them and advancing with swords. Athos had heard screams as the pistols were fired and expected some casualties. He only hoped the blood that had been spilled was not royal.

Though outnumbered, the greater skill of the Musketeers quickly became apparent and the bandits dropped one by one leaving a final attacker standing. Athos quickly subdued him, twisting a wrist to relieve the man of his sword, forcing him down onto his knees. As Captain Treville returned from steering the courtiers to safety, Athos turned to report, and the bandit, seeing an opportunity, lunged for a dagger that had been discarded on the floor. 

“Athos!”

At d’Artagnan’s warning, he spun back toward the bandit, sword raised in warning, but before he could advise the man of his folly, a shot was fired from behind him, the ball nearly grazing his ear. The bandit stopped, hand only inches from the dagger, his eyes looking up in surprise before his entire body dropped like a marionette with severed strings.

Athos slowly pivoted, eyes wide in surprise, to find the Compte de Rochefort standing a short distance behind him, arm still extended, smoke rising from the barrel of the pistol he held in his hand.

Athos glared at the man. “Your aim has improved, I see.”

Rochefort smiled. “As you will find, a great many things have changed La Fere. Or shall I address you as Athos?”

Athos took a deep breath in through his nose and lowered his sword, stepping forward into Rochefort’s space. “You’ve overstepped your bounds, Rochefort. We needed him alive.”

Rochefort dropped the harquebus and raised one brow in challenge. “A pity. Though it would appear I have just saved your life. I would expect a bit more gratitude on your part.”

Treville stepped forward, placing a restraining hand on Athos’ arm. “Compte de Rochefort, I’m sure you have someplace to be? While we appreciate your intervention, you will please allow my Musketeers to handle this situation.”

Rochefort snorted derisively. “Seems to me, your Musketeers have handled things brilliantly so far. I would hate to interfere in such a delicate operation.” He bowed his head, but it was obvious he meant no respect. “If you will excuse me.” 

With a snide smile at Athos, he turned on his heel and made his way to follow the retreating backs of the rest of the courtiers. 

“Athos…” d’Artagnan’s voice shook and Athos immediately turned to the young man, noting the alarm on the Gascon’s face. Following d’Artagnan’s line of sight, Athos’ breath caught in his throat as he noticed Porthos and a small group gathered around a figure lying on the floor near the side windows – near the tables the King had been situated at before the attack.

“No,” he whispered, his eyes closing momentarily, steadying himself before he could force his feet to move in the direction of the gathering. As he neared, he was relieved to see Louis sitting beside Mazarin, his face pale but very much alive. The Cardinal had one hand on Louis’ shoulder, the other gripped the ornate crucifix he wore around his neck. He was whispering words of comfort to the King who nodded his head slowly, as if by rote. Next to Louis sat the Queen, her hand clasped tightly in her husband’s, her frightened eyes watching Porthos who was leaning over a wounded man lying on the floor. He was speaking in a soft, comforting tone that made Athos’ heart leap into his throat.

“Easy, take it easy. Try not to move” Porthos said soothingly. “Look at me, Aramis. Stay with me.”

Athos dropped to his knees and looked around the big man’s shoulders. Aramis lay in a pool of blood, his eyes unfocused, his mouth pinched tight in pain. Athos couldn’t tell if he was aware of Porthos words or not, but he knew from experience the sound of a familiar voice could ground you when there was nothing but pain surrounding you.

“Porthos?” 

The big man nodded absently, understanding Athos’ question even though he could not bring himself to ask it. Porthos’ large hand gently pressed against a bloody wound low on Aramis left side, causing a grunt of incoherent mumbling from the normally loquacious Spaniard. 

“The ball didn’t go deep, but he’s bleedin’ bad. He needs a surgeon.” Porthos lifted his hand briefly to show the wound still leaking blood, the red liquid dripping down the leather doublet to join the growing pool beneath their friend. D’Artagnan immediately dropped to his knees beside their fallen comrade and pulled off his sash. Folding it into an effective bandage, he replaced Porthos hand, pressing it against the bloody wound in Aramis’ side. 

Aramis reacted to the increased pressure, muttering a few words in Spanish that Athos fervently hoped weren’t curses in deference to the Queen. Aramis’ eyes seemed to search the air around him, finally coming to rest on Anne’s frightened face. He gave her a pained smile before he let out a huff of breath and suddenly went limp, his head lolling to the side. Anne gasped in fear, putting a hand to her mouth and Porthos placed his own bloody hand on Aramis’ chest, relieved to feel the steady beat of his friend’s heart. He brushed back a few errant curls from Aramis forehead, before glancing up at Anne.

“It’s all right, your Majesty. He’s just passed out. He’s probably better off this way for now.” He turned concerned eyes to Athos. “We’re gonna have to move ‘im.”

Athos nodded, naturally taking charge of the situation. He didn’t like how pale his friend had become, and he knew he needed medical attention as soon as possible. “We’ll take him back to the garrison –“

“No.”

All eyes raised in surprise to Louis. 

“No,” The King repeated, his hand gripping Anne’s. He swallowed hard, his eyes wide and frightened, but his voice steadied as he returned Athos’ stare. “You will take him to a room in the east wing. He’ll be more comfortable there. I will send for my personal physician at once.”

“Your Majesty–“ Cardinal Mazarin began, but silenced at Louis’ raised hand.

“This man just saved the Queen’s life, Cardinal. We will do whatever we can to see to it he gets the best care possible.” He looked to Anne who was still staring at Aramis’ motionless form, her eyes filled with fear and compassion. “Do not worry yourself, my dear. We will make sure he survives.”

Anne sniffed and clutched at her husband’s hand, her eyes never leaving Aramis’ slack face.

“There is a room just down the hall that he will be comfortable in.”

“I will show you the way,” Anne offered, rising with Louis. She turned to him, holding both of his hands between hers, smiling tremulously at his expression of uncertainty. “I assure you, I am fine. I will join you shortly, Sire. I wish to see this brave soldier taken care of.”

Louis smiled fondly at her and nodded. “Very well, if you’re sure?”

Athos saw her nod and take a deep, quivering breath before stepping away to allow Porthos to lift Aramis in his strong arms. The big Musketeer shifted his friend carefully until his head lay comfortably against the pauldron on Porthos’ shoulder.

“We shall await news in the King’s chambers,” Mazarin declared, his eyes narrowed, his gaze locked onto Anne’s obviously distressed face. The Queen’s trepidation for the man who had saved her could in no way be construed as anything but innocent concern, but Athos didn’t like the hint of suspicion he detected in the Cardinal’s eyes. 

He stepped up, moving to Anne’s side, and she turned her head to him, cutting off the Cardinal’s view. “Thank you, your Majesty. If you would lead the way?” He bowed and sweeping a hand before them in invitation. With a final glance at her husband, Anne picked up the hem of her bustling skirt and led them from the ballroom.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Secrets and Lies  
Chapter 2

They were shown to a large, ornate room in the adjacent wing of the palace. Porthos carried the wounded soldier through a spacious doorway flanked by two elaborately carved wooden doors and over to a sizeable bed with a soft, down-filled mattress covered with a gold duvet. Hesitating to set his bleeding friend down on the expensive covering, Porthos looked back to the Queen who had stopped just inside the doorway, out of the way, her face still pale, her brow creased in concern.

“What is it?” she asked, seeing Porthos hesitate and fearing something had happened in the short walk to the suite.

“I’m not sure you want to get all this blood on the bed,” Porthos said timidly. Despite the circumstances, he’d never seen anything quite so lovely and was uncertain whether it was proper to ruin it.

Anne shook her head and advanced into the room. “It is simply a duvet. There are many more like it in the palace.” She quickly folded the spread back, allowing Porthos to lay the injured man on the sheets below. “Do not be concerned. Aramis’ comfort is much more important than any simple furnishings.”

With a sigh of relief, Porthos set Aramis down, making sure his head was on the pillow and his legs stretched out along the mattress before he backed away, allowing Athos and the Queen to come to his side.

“The surgeon has been summoned, You Highness.” Anne dipped her head toward the servant girl who had entered the room in thanks, then turned to Athos.

“What else do you need?” Though she held herself regally, Athos could tell she was shaken by what had happened.

“We’ll need hot water and bandages,” Athos said, his eyes searching the doorway for the arrival of the surgeon. Aramis was still bleeding sluggishly and from Athos had seen in the ballroom, the younger Musketeer probably couldn’t afford to lose much more. D’Artagnan’s sash was already saturated and he reached down to remove it, replacing it with his own.

The Queen nodded to the servant who scurried back out the door.

“I’ll help,” d’Artagnan said quickly, rushing out behind her without waiting for a response, hurried footsteps echoing down the hallway. 

As Athos began to unbuckle Aramis’ weapons belt and doublet, Anne stepped to the head of the bed, placing a shaking hand on the wounded man’s brow. “What can I do to help?”

“We need to get these clothes off him.” Athos said absently, not considering to whom he was speaking. At her gasp of shock, he paused, inwardly cringing at the implication that she should assist. He slowly raised his gaze to meet hers. She stared back coolly, but didn’t respond. Pulling the belt from around Aramis’ waist, he called to Porthos who still stood behind him a few feet from the bed. “Porthos, I will need your help.”

When there was no response, he turned his head, his eyes raking over the larger man, assessing. Porthos was pale – paler than the shock of seeing Aramis bleeding warranted. Athos quickly ran a practiced eye over Porthos frame, noting the blood staining his shirt in front and on his arm.

“Porthos? Are you injured?”

The question seemed to snap the larger Musketeer out of his disoriented state. “What? No. I’m fine.”

Athos turned back to Aramis, leaning him up in order to pull one of his arms from the doublet. “I do believe the blood on your arm says otherwise.”

Porthos lifted his right arm and winced, eyes wide in surprise at the sight of the blood drying on his sleeve. “Huh,” he grunted as if just now noticing the wound. “I guess I got hit when I dove for the King.”

“Is it bad?”

“No. Never even noticed it. Just a scratch.”

“We’ll have it seen to as soon as we get Aramis looked after,” Athos promised, still fighting with his friend’s arm and the stubborn leather coat. “But, if you are able, I could use your assistance.”

“I can help,” Anne stepped forward, reaching for Aramis’ other arm as Athos managed to free the first one. 

“Only if you are comfortable with it, Your Majesty.” 

“I believe we both know the answer to that.” 

Athos looked up sharply, knowing that his anxiety over Aramis’ condition had already caused him to overstep his bounds. Instead of anger or rapprochement, he was surprised to find understanding in Anne’s eyes, an expression of strained amusement on her face. The Queen was well aware that Athos knew about the night she and Aramis had slept together at the convent, having caught them in quite the compromising position the next morning. Being privy to their secret apparently bought Athos some leeway, although he vowed to consider his words carefully no matter what the circumstances from now on. She smiled, sensing his discomfort, and he wasn’t sure how to respond.

He was saved by a choked cough from the wounded man and they all leaned closer as Aramis’ head tossed back and forth on the pillow, his face pinched in pain.

“Easy, my friend,” Athos soothed, placing one hand on his shoulder and one on his cheek to calm him. “You’re all right. Just relax. The surgeon will be here momentarily.”

“Anne…” Aramis’ voice was little more than a whisper. “Is she…”

“The Queen is safe,” Athos assured him. “You saved her.”

Aramis sighed in relief then went limp, his breath escaping his mouth in a rush, his body sinking bonelessly into the mattress.

Athos quickly placed a hand on his friend’s chest, relieved to feel his heart still beating, albeit a bit too fast for his liking.

“Athos?”

The older man nodded, his own heart racing as he swallowed and released a tense breath. “He’s fallen unconscious again,” he informed the others. “But his heart is steady and it seems as if the bleeding has slowed.”

A volley of voices in the hallway was followed by a small man striding into the room, large leather bag in tow.

“Ah, Your Majesty,” the surgeon bowed. “I was told you needed my immediate assistance. You were not injured?”

Anne shook her head. She was seated partway on the bed near Aramis’ head, her hand absently stroking the dark curls. “I am unharmed, Daquin. It is Aramis, one of the King’s Musketeers. He was injured protecting me in the assault.”

Daquin stepped up to the bed, his sharp eyes taking in Aramis’ pale countenance as well as the bloodstained shirt still adorning his body. He lifted the shirt, frowning at the damage the musket ball had wrought.

“He is lucky,” Daquin announced. “If the blood was darker we would know his liver or something vital had been hit. As it is, the blood is red, so it more than likely missed his organs. We will know soon enough if he will be able to survive such a wound.”

Athos was relieved to hear the physician’s words, even if the man’s manner left little to be desired. Apparently, the Queen was not impressed either.

“This man has done a great service to France and to me,” she told Daquin, an unmistakable warning in her tone. “You will do everything within your power to save him.”

The physician’s demeanor softened and Athos could detect true affection for the Queen in his smile. 

“Fear not, My Queen. Your champion will live. I give you my word.”

Anne returned his smile, trusting in his confidence, relief obvious in her eyes. 

Daquin turned to Athos. “I believe the Queen would be more comfortable waiting outside?” Daquin posed his suggestion as a question, his eyes dropping to the bleeding wound and back to catch Athos gaze again.

“Of course,” the Musketeer agreed. Witnessing the trauma of digging a musket ball out of a human body was something the Queen did not need to be subjected to. “Porthos will see to her.” He saw Anne about to protest, so pointed out Porthos bleeding arm. “Perhaps Her Highness could help Porthos bandage his arm?” He knew the woman wanted to help, and he knew she was frightened for Aramis, but it was better if she was kept away for now. Her hand had not left Aramis’ head, her fingers stroking through the dark strands in what could be construed as a familiar gesture. At the moment, it could be accredited to her concern and gratitude for Aramis’ actions, but there was no reason to tempt fate. Despite their caution, it was obvious the Queen felt something for the Musketeer and there was little sense making it easier for someone like Daquin or the Cardinal to make the connection they’d all worked so diligently to hide.

Anne seemed to understand his concerns and nodded reluctantly. “Of course.” She took a long, lingering look at Aramis before rising and heading toward the door. Porthos glared at the older Musketeer who simply raised an eyebrow in return. Resigned to his fate, he shook his head, rolled his eyes then followed the Queen into the hallway and out of sight. 

“Now then,” Daquin said as soon as they’d disappeared and the door had been closed in their wake. “Shall we get to work?”

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Anne led Porthos down the hall to another room a bit smaller than the one Aramis was in. She motioned for him to take a seat on an elaborately carved wooden chair with a striped padded cushion that didn’t look as if it would hold her weight let alone his.

“You don’t have to do this, Your Majesty.” Porthos protested, not at all comfortable having the Queen of France attend to his wound. She had sent another servant off to find more bandages and hot water, so they were alone with little to do until the girl returned with the supplies.

“I make you nervous,” she smiled. “I’m sorry.”

Porthos returned the smile tautly. “It’s not that… well… yes, I guess it is. I just don’t think it proper.”

“I’m the Queen, Porthos. I get to decide what is proper and what is not.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” 

He avoided her eyes, shifting on his feet, his obvious unease speaking silent volumes. It took a few moments, but Anne seemed to understand what Porthos was trying very hard not to say. Her face paled, her hand moved to her throat and she stared at the Musketeer with wide, frightened eyes.

“You know, don’t you?”

Caught off guard by the whispered inquiry and cursing himself for being so easy to read, Porthos nodded stiffly.

“He didn’t betray your trust, Your Majesty.” Porthos held her eyes, his voice soft in deference to her fear. “I swear to you, on my honor, Aramis didn’t tell me anythin’ I hadn’t already figured out on my own.” He felt the need to protect his friend, knowing Aramis would be horrified if she thought he’d been disloyal. “He’s my best friend. The only family I have in the world.” 

He took a few steps across the room toward the chair feeling the need to put space between them, knowing the conversation was making her uncomfortable. He cautiously took a seat, surprised that the dainty looking piece of furniture easily held his weight. Once situated, he returned his attention to Anne who was standing rigidly, her hands clasped in tight fists, silently waiting for him to continue. 

“I know Aramis better than he knows himself. And I knew something was tearing him up inside. He didn’t want to tell me and he didn’t – not really. But I couldn’t help him if….”

A scarlet blush rose on the Queen’s face as Porthos shrugged, his voice trailing as his gaze dropped to the floor. Her hand flailed at the golden chain adorning her neck and she blinked back tears, shaking her head in mortification. “What you must be thinking.”

Porthos looked up, not seeing the Queen of France standing before him, but a frightened, lonely woman whose chance at love was forever out of her reach.

“I think you were two people who needed each other.” He shrugged, accepting that whatever happened wasn’t something that they’d planned and it wasn’t something that was meaningless to either of them. “I think you’re someone Aramis cares about. That means I care, too.”

Anne smiled graciously, her eyes bright with moisture. “Thank you, Porthos.” Her voice hitched and Porthos could see she was shaking. She raised her hands to her face and Porthos knew she was crying, though she did not make a sound. Seeing her distress caused the Musketeer to instinctively rise and close the distance between them.

“Your Majesty?” he asked tentatively, waiting anxiously as the slight woman fought to compose herself.

“I’m sorry,” she said sniffling, turning her back to him to avoid his gaze. “I am not making this very easy for you, am I?”

“Musketeers don’t do ‘easy’.”

She turned her head, glancing back at him over her shoulder, trying to blink back the tears that had begun to slide down her flushed cheeks. He could tell she was desperately trying to hold onto whatever control she could and Porthos couldn’t help but admire her courage and fortitude

“Are you all right?”

Sadly, she nodded her head and turned back to face him, her head held high despite the pain etched upon her delicate features. “I am the Queen of France,” she said in a resolute voice. “I don’t have the luxury to be anything else.”

Porthos considered her words for a moment before shaking his head defiantly. “That’s not right.”

She smiled and dropped her eyes, touched by his gruff statement. “It is simply the way things must be.”

He approached her slowly, dipping down in order to catch her eyes. “Maybe out there,” he tilted his head toward the door. “But there’s no one in here to know,” he offered. He had no idea what he was doing, but Porthos knew Aramis would hate to see her like this, and it was in his nature to do what he could to ease her suffering.

She lifted her head, her face filled with misery. “I keep seeing all the blood,” she whispered, closing her eyes against the memories. “What if he…” her voice broke, her countenance crumbled and Porthos stepped forward enfolding her in his strong arms. 

“He’s gonna be fine,” he assured her as she began to cry softly, quietly against his chest. Her sobs shook her body and Porthos tightened his arms around her, his heart aching dully for her pain. Crying women were not something he was comfortable with. Crying Queens even less so. His eyes moved to the door, relieved it was closed, hoping no one would hear and come to investigate. It would not do to find the Queen in the arms of a Musketeer – even if it was an innocent act of consolation. 

Without any other course of action, he simply stood and held her while she cried. His hold tightened as she pressed herself closer, and Porthos felt a strong sense of protectiveness wash over him. He’d seen what their secret had done to Aramis, making him anxious and, at times, depressed. But he’d had Athos and himself for support – who exactly had Anne been able to confide in? He was used to seeing her as a Queen, an untouchable sovereign, infallible, above the base emotion that were the domain of her subjects. But, he realized, she was also a woman, with feelings and doubts and passions that she was trained to repress – probably from birth – with little opportunity to let her true feelings take hold. 

As her sobs eventually softened into quiet hiccups, Porthos leaned down, his cheek grazing the intricate braid on the top of her head, feeling the need to say something – anything – to break the awkward silence. “I hear a good cry always makes things better.”

She laughed self-consciously, stepping away, ducking her head in embarrassment. He dropped his arms and moved back a discreet distance, giving her a moment to regain her regal poise. Anne pulled a dainty lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at the tears in the corners of her eyes. “I apologize, Monsieur.” She looked up at him through wet lashes, her green eyes full of sorrow. “I can’t seem to stop placing you in an uncomfortable position.”

Porthos grinned, his brows rising sharply in agreement. “Uncomfortable perhaps, but not entirely unpleasant.” Her gracious smile lit up her hazel eyes and Porthos suddenly understood how Aramis had allowed himself to forget propriety to be close to her.

She turned away, using the handkerchief to wipe the tears from her cheeks and Porthos watched her gather herself, marveling at how quickly she was able to recover her composure. He cleared his throat tentatively to gain her attention. 

“Can I ask you a favor?” He found it strange to be speaking with the Queen in such a normal manner, but considering what had just happened, he supposed standing on ceremony was a bit absurd. Without all the trappings of the court around her, she was very easy to talk to and very… human. It was no wonder Aramis had fallen so hard.

“Of course,” she responded immediately, her voice once again strong and steady. “Anything.”

“I think he’s accepted that you and he can never be. As much as he wishes things were different, he knows it’s impossible.” Anne dropped her eyes, and Porthos felt bad for hurting her, but she needed to understand. “But the child… that is what is going to be hard for him to come to terms with. Not being able to be a part of his life… it’s going to eat at him.”

Anne nodded sadly. “What are you asking of me, Porthos?”

“I don’t know… just… don’t play with his heart. He gives it freely and fully. He doesn’t hold back anything in order to protect himself. I don’t want to see him hurt any more than he already is.”

Anne lowered her head, her hands dropping, clasped in front of her, handkerchief squeezed tightly between them. “You love him.” 

It wasn’t a question, but Porthos nodded anyway. “Very much.”

She lifted her head and Porthos could see the truth in her eyes. “As do I.”

Porthos sighed. This was harder than he’d thought it would be. “I know,” he told her gently. And that’s what’s going to get him killed.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Athos leaned against the wall just outside the doors of the room where Daquin was finishing bandaging Aramis’ wound. They had removed the ball, which, as Porthos had surmised, was not embedded too deeply within the flesh. The surgeon assured him it had not damaged anything more than muscle and skin but the real threat being the amount of blood he had lost, which would weaken him. They had stopped the bleeding and as long as the wound did not become infected, Daquin was confident Aramis would make a full recovery. Athos was not as certain of the prognosis as the physician seemed to be, but he was willing to defer to the man’s expertise for the moment and allowed himself a slight reprieve from his concern.

With Aramis tended to, Athos found himself once again thinking like a soldier, considering the attack and the ramifications it generated. He had sent d’Artagnan to find Treville as soon as he’d returned with the medical supplies, knowing the Captain would have begun the investigation immediately. It was important to find out who these bandits were and what they had hoped to accomplish by attacking the palace. 

More importantly, it was paramount to establish how they had gained access to a place that had been under the highest level of security. While it was the Red Guard who were at fault for allowing the attack to get past their defenses to begin with, it in no way reflected well on the Musketeers that the bandits had been able to open fire upon the assembled nobility, not to mention the King and Queen themselves.

To have the Royal Couple at risk within their own home was unacceptable, as he was sure Treville would point out the moment he arrived. First the Cardinal is murdered in his own office and now this. He certainly did not want to be in the boots of the Captain of the Guard when the King began doling out blame.

Footsteps down the hallway forced him to push himself from where he’d slumped against the wall, and he drew himself to something that resembled attention as d’Artagnan and Captain Treville stopped before him.

“How is Aramis?” Treville inquired immediately. Ever since confessing his part in the travesty of Savoy, the Captain had seemed to show a bit more favoritism to the one man who had survived the massacre. Athos had noticed how Treville had begun to look the other way at times, allowing Aramis more latitude than most of the other men under his command, but he’d never called attention to it. As far as he was concerned, Aramis deserved any leniency for all he’d been through, and if it eased Treville’s conscience a bit, then so be it. Athos would not begrudge his friends the means by which they might both heal.

“The surgeon is confident he will recover,” Athos responded, trying to sound more certain than he felt. “But he will not be fit for duty for some time.”

“He will have whatever time he needs,” Treville assured him.

The soft rustle of skirts, accompanied by the thud of boots on the marble floor heralded the Queen’s arrival, Porthos in tow. The big man’s arm was expertly wrapped in a crisp white bandage, his doublet thrown over his shoulder as he meekly followed the much smaller woman. Athos grinned and raised his brows in delight at the sight; he had never seen Porthos look quite so… docile.

“Your Majesty,” Treville greeted as the three men bowed. “Athos was just giving us the good news.”

Anne turned to Athos, a tentative smile on her face. “Aramis?”

“Will be fine,” Athos assured her. “Daquin is bandaging his wound, but assures me he will live to fight another day.” Athos noted her flushed face and her red eyes. She’d been crying. He raised an eyebrow at Porthos, who shook his head, warning him to let the silent inquiry drop.

“I’m pleased.” Her eyes strayed to the partially closed door. “I will inform the King of the good news. Please tell Aramis I will return to thank him properly when he is feeling better.”

“Of course,” Athos bowed again as she turned and made her way back down the hallway, disappearing through another set of doors.

“It would seem the Queen is quite taken with our friend,” Treville eyed the other three Musketeers, and Athos and Porthos exchanged a quick glance before schooling their features into acceptable innocence. D’Artagnan, of course, had no need for subterfuge.

“He has managed to save her life at least three times that I know of,” d’Artagnan conveniently reminded the Captain. “Four if you count today.”

“True,” Treville acknowledged, still watching his two senior men through narrowed eyes. Unfortunately, the Captain was well aware of Aramis’ reputation, which, under the circumstances, was a bit of a hindrance in campaigning for their friend’s virtue.

“Do you have any word on the bandits?” Athos asked, deftly changing the subject. Porthos rolled his eyes at the segue and Athos simply shrugged in return.

Treville pulled a small piece of parchment from his belt and held it out to his lieutenant. “We found this on one of the men. It was the only form of identification on any of them.”

Athos took the parchment, unfolded it and briefly scanned the document.

“This is a letter to a Madame Ferroche.”

“Yes. Apparently, one of the men wanted to let his wife know of his fate should the worst happen. The only address is in the province of Touraine, at least a day’s ride from Paris. We must track down this woman. Perhaps she can explain to us why they decided to attack the palace.”

Athos nodded, tucking the note into his belt. Darkness had fallen many hours ago, but there was little time to prepare for the journey before the dawn. “D’Artagnan and I will ride out at first light. Have you determined how they were able to get past the guards?” 

Treville sighed and shifted on his feet, his right hand resting against the grip of his sword. “The guards at the gates claimed to have seen no one. The bandits must have entered through the tunnels beneath the palace.”

“But the entrance Vadim’s men used was sealed, was it not?” d’Artagnan shuddered at the memory of his escape through the dark tunnels and the explosions the thief had set in his attempt to steal the riches of the palace. 

Treville nodded in response to d’Artagnan’s question. “It was, but it is possible there is more than one. I have men in the tunnels searching now. If there is another entrance, we will find it and seal it.” He took a deep breath through his nose and squared his shoulders, his gaze one of remorse. “I do not have to tell you how important this mission is. We cannot have the King anxious in his own home.”

“I understand,” Athos assured him. “We will find out what motivated these men and make sure to avert any plot against the crown.”

“I’m going with you.”

He turned to Porthos, who looked back at him defiantly despite holding his arm close to his torso in obvious discomfort

He would like nothing more than to have Porthos’ skill and strength at his side, but this was a mission he and d’Artagnan could handle alone. Until Aramis regained consciousness and they knew for certain he was out of danger, Porthos’ mind would be divided, worry for his friend – not to mention the pain he was trying not to show – diverting his attention from the task at hand. Athos wouldn’t risk it; he already had one brother seriously wounded, he wouldn’t risk another.

“No, my friend, you are needed here.” Athos put a hand on Porthos shoulder and squeezed, stopping the man before he could argue. “You are wounded yourself, and I would feel better knowing you are here with Aramis until he is able to defend himself.” Athos hated using Aramis’ current condition against Porthos, but knew the man’s sense of loyalty and concern for his friend would stay any rebuttal. “Remain here, watch over our brother, and give the captain any help necessary to reinforce the security of the palace.”

Porthos nodded reluctantly.

“Good. We will return as soon as possible. “

“Take care, my friends.” Porthos let his gaze shift to d’Artagnan, letting the younger man know he was included in the caveat. “And God speed.”

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Secrets and Lies  
Chapter 3

Porthos stepped into the room as Daquin finished tucking his instruments back into his satchel.

“Ah, Monsieur Porthos, I presume?” The diminutive man closed his bag and stepped back to allow the Musketeer access to his patient. “Monsieur Athos assured me you would be here to watch over our hero for a time?”

Porthos nodded, stepping close to the bed, his eyes searching Aramis’ slack face for any sign of life. Despite Athos’ assurance the marksman would recover, Porthos’ chest tightened, seeing his friend’s pale features.

“He will be fine,” Daquin said softly, noting the obvious concern on Porthos’ face. He shifted his gaze to the wounded man, a compassionate smile lifting one side of his mouth. “The ball was not deep, though it did cause much bleeding. That is what ails him now, He must rest, build his strength. When he wakes, he will be in pain. I have left a mixture on the stand. Make him drink it all. It will help.”

Porthos nodded absently, and Daquin, whose head barely came up to the big Musketeer’s shoulder, noted the bandage on his arm.

“You are wounded. Shall I take a look?”

Porthos shook his head, his eyes never leaving Aramis’ face. “No. The Queen saw to it.”

Daquin dipped his head in approval. “Then I shall leave you with your friend, but rest assured, I will not go far. Please send for me if you have need. Her Majesty is very fond of this one, we must take exceptionally good care of him.”

Porthos turned to the physician, a familiar unease sweeping through him at his words, but saw no indictment in the man’s eyes. He studied Daquin for a moment to be sure, then returned his gaze to Aramis, quietly sighing in relief.

“He does have that effect on people.” Women, he silently amended.

Daquin, puzzled by Porthos’ reaction, stared at him for a moment before nodding and quietly padding from the room.

Porthos pulled a chair next to the bed and sat down heavily. His arm ached, but the true pain was in his heart. He had been terrified when the fighting had ceased and he’d looked around and caught the Queen’s horrified gaze. She was kneeling beside Aramis, who wasn’t moving, his glassy eyes staring at the ceiling in shock, a large pool of blood staining the marble floor. He had grabbed Louis’ arm and pulled him, scuttling across the tiles to his friend, praying silently that the situation was not as dire as he feared.

The blood had been what scared him. There was so much of it in so little time. The surgeon had assured him the damage was not severe and in time Aramis would recover and, in his mind, he accepted that as true. But his heart longed for the proof of Aramis’ dark eyes staring back at him, his lilting voice chiding him for his needless worry.

Blood and wounds and death were a part of being a Musketeer and Porthos had seen his share. But it was always more difficult when it was someone close and, if he was being honest, it was even more difficult when it was Aramis. Being their unofficial medic, Aramis was always the one taking charge when any of them were hurt – sewing them up, checking for infection, making sure they were comfortable and safe. When Aramis was the injured party, the rest of them were at a loss, having gotten too used to the marksman being the one to handle things. So seeing him like this was more than a little unsettling.

Ever since the day he’d walked into the garrison, Aramis had been there, no hesitation, simply offering his friendship freely. When he’d left the Court and the only family he’d ever known behind, he hadn’t let himself hope that he would find that feeling of closeness again, but Aramis had stepped right into the role, seamlessly, and Porthos had never doubted that he’d made the right choice. Losing that was one of his greatest fears and this time had been too close.

Porthos leaned forward, placing a hand against his friend’s cheek, noting the coolness of his skin. 

“You know I don’t appreciate you doin’ things that scare the hell out me, right?” His voice was soft, light and he huffed out a choked laugh. “I don’t suppose you could open your eyes and let me know you’re all right now, eh?”

Aramis remained stubbornly silent.

Porthos took a shaking breath and nodded once. “Okay. It’s all right. I can wait. Whenever you’re ready.”

He sat back in the chair, pulling his arm close to his chest and settled in for the night.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

“What is it?”

Athos turned to glance at d’Atagnan, cursing the lad’s perceptiveness. They had gotten only a few hours rest before they’d set out from Paris, though his mind had not allowed him sleep, his concern for their wounded brother uppermost in his thoughts. Though Daquin had assured him Aramis would recover, it was disconcerting to see the normally energetic Spaniard so still and pale. They had stopped at the palace only to find that Aramis had not yet regained consciousness, although he seemed to be resting comfortably and his color much improved.

“I’m just worried.”

“About Aramis.” D’Artagnan presumed. 

Athos grunted in acknowledgement.

“He’ll be all right,” d’Artagnan sounded as if he was trying to convince himself as much as his mentor. “You spoke to the surgeon yourself. He said –“

“I know what he said, d’Artagnan. I’m just…”

“Worried.”

“Exactly.”

They rode, side by side, letting the fresh spring morning settle them. The sun shone down, warming them comfortably. The countryside they were riding through was a myriad of colors, the sweet scent of the blooming iris flowers wafting through the breeze.

“Tell me about Rochefort.”

Athos sighed, wishing he had agreed to Porthos accompanying them simply to keep d’Artagnan’s insatiable curiosity occupied.

“What would you like to know?”

“Why does he hate you?”

“Rochefort hates everyone.” Athos shrugged. “I am not unique.”

“Did you have a falling out as children?”

Athos sighed again, resigned to answering the Gascon’s questions. “When we were younger, his brother, Frederick, and I were friends. We trained together for a time, though Frederick did not take to the sword as well. He was a gentle soul, more inclined to read and spend time with the horses than learn to thrust and parry. Rochefort, by comparison, was very… competitive. He strove to be the best in order to garner his father’s approval. But being a second born son meant he was not to inherit the title, lands or moneys he believed should be his. After Frederick disappeared, he petitioned the King for the title, and thanks to a reference from Cardinal Richelieu, it was granted to him.”

“Rochefort knew Richelieu?”

“Very well it would seem. I cannot attest to the validity of the rumors, but it was speculated, Rochefort was one of Richelieu’s most trusted allies. Apparently the Comte was extremely loyal to the man.”

“And you don’t think his attendance at the gala last night was coincidence?”

Athos grinned, impressed with the lad’s perceptiveness. “Something he said has been troubling me. That he’d expected to run into me.”

“He said he’d heard you joined the Musketeers,” d’Artagnan responded. “It’s conceivable he might see you if he came to the palace.”

Athos nodded, conceding the point. “He knew I’d joined the Musketeers, but how could he when nobody – not even my trusted friends – knew I had been the Comte de La Fere until recently? My true name was known to no one except Treville, yet Rochefort knew to address me as Athos.”

“And you believe the Cardinal told him?”

“It would seem the most logical assumption.”

“But how would Richelieu have known –“ d’Artagnan held up a finger, answering his own question. “Milady.”

“Yes,” Athos agreed. “I am sure my wife was very explicit in her hatred toward me.”

“That still doesn’t explain what Rochefort was doing at the palace,” d’Artagnan continued, puzzled. “With the Cardinal dead, what had he to gain?”

“Avenging his murder?” Athos speculated.

“But Louis loved the Cardinal like a father. What would Rochefort have to gain by harming the King?” 

“Perhaps it was not the King he was trying to harm.”

“The Queen?” d’Artagnan posed, confused.

Athos shook his head. “Secondary as it was, we were able to find evidence suggesting Mazarin’s involvement in Richelieu’s murder. The Comte de Rochefort is an extremely intelligent man. Perhaps he found evidence implicating the Cardinal as well.”

D’Artagnan considered the theory, realizing it wasn’t quite as implausible as one would like to believe. “And you suspect Rochefort is capable of such subterfuge?”

“Most certainly capable, d’Artagnan.” Athos admitted. “If I am right and he did kill his own brother to claim his inheritance, there is no telling what he would do to avenge someone he actually held in regard.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos rubbed his eyes and stretched, pushing himself from the chair where he had spent a rather uncomfortable night. His gaze moved to the unconscious man in the bed and he sighed in frustration. Despite what he’d said the night before, he was anxious to see his friend’s familiar brown eyes looking back. Daquin had returned earlier that morning, soon after Athos and d’Artagnan had left on their journey to Touraine, finding the wound free of infection and repeating his assurances that Aramis would be fine. 

He rubbed a hand over his tight curls and slowly made his way across the room to the large windows on the far wall. It looked to be a beautiful spring day, and he opened the window to let in some fresh air. Taking a deep breath, he detected the scent of lilies blooming in the gardens and smiled, knowing how much Aramis loved the season. After a long winter, the Spaniard had always welcomed spring like a long lost love, his arms open, his eyes shining, his lips smiling in content. Porthos believed it was partially due to the memories of Savoy that still haunted his friend on those cold winter nights, but it was also Aramis’ natural lust for life – something he prayed would work in his friend’s favor in his current state.

A low moan from behind caught his attention and he moved back to the bed, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth as he watched Aramis frown then slowly turn his head on the pillow. Relief flowed through him as his friend began to wake.

“Shhhh, ‘Mis. Easy now,” he placed a hand on the wounded man’s forehead, pleased to find the skin warmer than before. “Everything’s all right,” he continued his litany as Aramis struggled to wake. “You’re all right. Just take it easy.”

Slowly Aramis blinked open sleepy lids.

“So you are still in there, eh?” Porthos’ face split into a grin as his friend’s familiar dark eyes focused on him. “I was startin’ to get worried.”

“P’thos?”

“Right here, mon ami.” He took the hand that lifted searchingly from the bed. “Right here. You’re all right.”

Aramis swallowed, his eyes squeezing shut as pain began to register in his sluggish mind. “What hap’n’d?”

Porthos squeezed the hand and shifted to sit lightly on the edge of the bed, more aligned with his friend’s limited view. “It was quite a party. What do you remember?”

Aramis opened his eyes and let them drift around the room, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Are we at the palace?”

Porthos nodded. “You’re being treated like a right hero,” he explained with a grin.

Suddenly Aramis’ eyes widened and he tried to push his body from the bed. “Anne!”

Porthos caught him as he gasped, his hand clutching his side, guiding him back to the pillows, holding him down with minimal force. “Easy, idiot. You’ve been shot. You’re in no condition to go rushing off to save the Queen.”

“Porthos!” Aramis growled between clenched teeth.

“She’s fine,” the larger Musketeer soothed. “Which is more than I can say for you.”

Porthos watched him for a moment, assessing his pain level, determining for himself the validity of Daquin’s prognosis.

Aramis opened his eyes to see the endearing concern on his friend’s face. 

“I’m fine, Porthos.” 

“Mmm hmmm.” 

Aramis rolled his eyes. The bandage wrapped around Porthos’ arm caught his attention, and his expression changed to one of alarm, his own pain momentarily forgotten. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine,” Porthos said with a chuckle. “The Queen herself saw to me.” He looked sideways at the well-wrapped bandage, his face alight with amusement. “She’s a better nurse than she is a cook.”

Aramis laughed then winced as the movement pulled on his wound. He reached his arm across his stomach and rubbed at the ache. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”

“A hole in your side will do that.”

Porthos reached for the cup on the sideboard, placed a hand behind Aramis’ head and raising it, helped his friend drink. The wounded man took a sip from the cup, scrunching his face in disgust.

“That is revolting.”

Porthos smiled indulgently, not moving the cup away, encouraging his friend to drink more. “It’ll help with the pain. Daquin said for you to drink it all.”

“Daquin?” Aramis managed to inquire between small sips of the vile mixture.

“The King’s surgeon. He’s the one who took the ball out of you and stitched you back up. Did a fair job of it. Almost as good as you.”

“Remind me to thank him.”

Aramis managed half the cup before refusing to drink any more, pushing the cup away weakly. Porthos complied, considering it a triumph if the concoction tasted as bad as it smelled.

“Was anyone hurt?”

Porthos pursed his lips and shook his head. “No. A few scrapes and bruises due to the panic, but everyone made it out in one piece. The bandits didn’t fare so well…” A shudder ran through him as the memory of his friend’s blood pooling in the ballroom flashed before his eyes. “And you managed to leave a fair amount of blood on the floor.”

Aramis studied his friend as he spoke. The larger man’s shiver didn’t go unnoticed. “Are you all right?”

Porthos eyes widened at the inquiry. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

“I know that look,” Aramis smiled softly. He took hold of Porthos hand once again as he pressed his head back into the pillow, trying to find a comfortable position to wait out the pain. “That’s your worried face.”

Porthos nodded in concession. “Perhaps I was a little worried.” He sobered as he looked down at their entwined hands. “You lost a lot of blood. Daquin said the wound itself wasn’t bad, but the blood loss would make you weak.” Porthos shrugged, a sad smile on his face. “You just wouldn’t wake up. Athos and d’Artagnan had to leave to question one of the bandits’ widow at sunrise. They stopped to see you, but…”

“I’m sorry, Porthos.” Aramis squeezed his friend’s hand, knowing how frightened the big man was of losing what little family he had. “The next time there is a gathering in my honor, I shall try harder to be in attendance.”

Porthos snorted a laugh. “How’ bout we just avoid a ‘next time’, huh?”

“Athos and d’Artagnan are questioning a widow? That would seem more in line with my expertise, but seeing I am currently indisposed, I’m sure they will prove to be adequate substitutions.” Porthos rolled his eyes, but his shoulders loosened as the familiar banter soothed his anxiety. “Am I to assume the Captain has discovered the identities of the men who attacked?”

Porthos watched as Aramis’ eyes began to blink sleepily, his breathing deepening as the potion began to take effect. “We have a name, Ferroche, and a location, Touraine, but that’s all. Treville suspects they came in through the tunnels Vadim used in order to get past the guards. He has men searching for another entrance point so that we can seal it like the other one.”

“The palace has many secrets,” Aramis mumbled as his eyes closed fully, a healing sleep once again claiming him.

Porthos smiled fondly and pulled the duvet up further, tucking it securely around the wounded man’s shoulders. “Yes, it does, my friend. Far too many secrets.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The two Musketeers rode into the small village of Rouen just as the sun was setting, its reflection shimmering orange and red in the flowing waters of the Siene. The village was quiet, lanterns burning in the homes where people had begun to settle in for the night. Athos led his companion to a larger structure set off from the others that he presumed to be an Inn, the sounds of spirited laughter emanating from within, promising respite from their long journey.

The ride had been long and the men were weary, in need of food, wine and rest. They had stopped in a number of other villages throughout Touraine province, and had finally been rewarded in their search, encountering a blacksmith who had recognized the name Ferroche. The man had directed them to Rouen and the exhausted Musketeers were relieved to have finally reached their destination. After ten long hours in the saddle, they decided finding and questioning Madame Ferroche could wait until daylight, affording them the opportunity to replenish their reserves.

Athos dismounted in front of the Inn, stretching his back with a groan as d’Artagnan dropped down beside him. The Gascon’s youthful body had taken the punishment of a day on horseback with much more grace than Athos’, and the older Musketeer found himself cursing the certainty of age. 

“We’ll stay here tonight,” he announced leading his horse to the stable near the Inn. A young boy appeared and took the reins, guiding both mounts inside to secure them for the night. After collecting their gear and paying the boy for the feed and hay, they made their way to the Inn, acquiring a room and trudging up the rickety staircase.

D’Artagnan tossed his bag on the chair beside the bed and dropped onto the hard mattress, sending a puff of dust into the air.

“What do we do now?”

“First, we find some food and a bottle of wine,” Athos responded, poking at his bed with disgust. “Then we attempt to sleep on these sore excuses for mattresses and hopefully find where Madame Ferroche lives in the morning. With any luck, we should have our answers and be back in Paris and in our own beds by tomorrow evening.”

“That is if Madame Ferroche has any answers to give us,” d’Artagnan yawned and coughed, waving a hand at the cloud that still lingered around the bed.

Athos took a deep breath at the sight and sighed, vowing silently to sleep on top of the blankets, fully clothed, and praying he and d’Artagnan were the only living occupants in the room.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Captain Treville wiped a hand over his weary face and headed to the Cardinal’s offices in the west wing of the palace. Though it was late, he knew Mazarin was still awaiting his report. The men he had sent into the tunnels had discovered a small opening near the original entrance that had been sealed after Vadim had wreaked havoc on the palace in his attempt to steal the royal jewels. The new opening was small enough to go undetected by routine patrols, yet large enough to allow a man to slip through into the tunnels and viaducts that ran beneath the Louvre. He had posted guards until morning when the masons would come and seal the breech as they’d done to the other. There was no way to anticipate where or when a determined assailant could force his way into the palace, but Treville would caution his men to be ever vigilant and add an extra patrol to tour the lower grounds on a daily basis.

Right now, though, all he could think about was delivering his report to Mazarin and retiring back to the garrison for some much needed sleep. While he rarely spent the night at the barracks, the journey to his own apartments seemed daunting, and he decided he could make do in his private room behind his office. 

Turning the corner from the portico, he was surprised to find the Comte de Rochefort standing in the shadows of the archway.

“Good evening, Comte,” he said with a courteous nod of his head. “May I ask what brings you to the palace at such a late hour?” There was little reason for anyone to be near the Cardinal’s offices at this time of night, and Treville stiffened, eyeing the man suspiciously as he smiled coldly in returned. 

“I had hoped to speak to the Cardinal,” he responded. “But I can see you have more pressing business, Captain.” He waved a hand, indicating Treville should proceed while he turned and moved back outside to the portico. “By the way, Captain, I hope you’ve made some progress on your investigation into the attack. I don’t suppose it looks favorable for your Musketeers to allow such an obvious act of aggression to go unpunished.”

Treville took a deep breath through his nose and released it, a practice he’d used many times to abate his anger and frustration when dealing with those of His Majesty’s court. “I assure you, Comte, my men will discover the author of this assault and he or she will be held accountable.”

Rochefort tipped his head, his beady eyes never leaving Treville’s face. “I should hope so, Captain. I would hate to think the King has misplaced his trust in you and your men.”

“My men consider the King’s safety their top priority.”

“That may be so, but I believe this would never have happened under Cardinal Richelieu’s watch. It is unfortunate his replacement is not as… capable.”

Treville sighed, not in the mood to debate the merits of a dead man. “It is not my place to discuss Cardinal Mazarin’s qualifications, Comte, merely to do the King’s bidding. If you would excuse me.” He raised a hand and motioned for one of the guards stationed near the archway to approach. “Please see the Comte back to the gates,” he instructed. “Good evening, Comte.”

Rochefort glared at the abrupt dismissal but nodded stiffly and followed the guard down the portico, disappearing from sight. Treville shook his head, unable to grasp the audacity of the nobility. Perhaps Athos could explain it to him someday, he mused. With an exhausted sigh he turned and resumed his path to Mazarin’s office. 

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Secrets and Lies  
Chapter 4

Aramis knew he was not alone. The smell of perfume and the feel of soft skin on his hand was enough to tell him it wasn’t Porthos who sat beside him. After staying with him for most of the day and evening, catching whatever rest he could in the uncomfortable chair beside the bed, Aramis had finally convinced Porthos to go back to the garrison and get a good night’s sleep. The big man was reluctant to leave his friend alone, but Aramis pointed out there were many servants and guards roaming the palace at all hours, and, if he was in need of anything or experiencing any pain or discomfort, Daquin was close by and had promised to check on him on occasion.

The diminutive physician had been pleased with his patient’s improvement in the last twenty-four hours and even more delighted with Aramis’ depth of medical knowledge, eager to speak about new techniques he’d learned of that may prove useful in the field. As the two medics debated the usefulness of blood-letting into the evening, Porthos had finally relented, bidding them both adieu and promising to return in the morning to assist with Aramis’ care.

Despite the big man’s promise, Aramis was convinced the sweet scent, melodic humming and soft stroking of his hand he was currently enjoying were not emanating from his masculine, bawdy, backslapping friend. He slowly opened his eyes, the late morning sun filling the room with a golden glow that only seemed more ethereal as it played upon the hair of the beautiful woman seated on the edge of the bed next to him.

“I must have died, because this is most obviously heaven.” 

Queen Anne smiled, her eyes crinkling with delight at the compliment.

“Some would think that blasphemy, Monsieur.”

“Then I am a sinner, and content to be so if it means this dream can continue.”

Anne giggled and Aramis felt his heart skip a beat. 

“Porthos warned me to be wary of your charms.”

“Porthos’ is a wise man,” Aramis said, his affection for his friend apparent. He tore his eyes from the Queen’s radiant face long enough to glance around the large room. “He has not yet returned?”

“We are quite alone,” Anne responded, understanding his unspoken caution. “Porthos was here when I arrived, but Captain Treville requested his assistance. There is a guard outside the door with the orders to let no one in without announcing their presence first – in deference to your condition, of course. We wouldn’t want you to be unduly awakened or disturbed.”

“That would be unfortunate.”

“Porthos was hesitant to go, not feeling comfortable leaving you alone for so long, so I offered myself as a substitute.”

Aramis smiled. “An improvement, I should think.” He tilted his head forward a bit and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t tell Porthos, but when forced into confinement, his attempts at entertainment leave little to be desired.”

Anne grinned and bowed her head in return. “I will endeavor to provide more adequate amusement.”

The Musketeer pressed a hand to his chest with dramatic flair. “My gratitude is endless.” 

Sobering, Anne squeezed his hand. “Speaking of gratitude, it seems I owe you my life yet again.” 

“It is my greatest honor to serve you, Your Majesty.”

“Be that as it may, it would serve me well for you to take better care of yourself. You frightened me.”

Aramis brought her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. He knew it was dangerous to display his affections so openly, but if, as she had said, the guard outside was to announce any intrusion, they were as safe as they were ever likely to be. “I assure you, I am fine. There is no call for worry. But what of you? You just gave birth. Should you be on your feet so quickly?”

Anne smiled and shook her head. “Women have been birthing babies since the dawn of time, Aramis, I am fine.”

“Then it would seem we are both…”

“Fine.”

They laughed for a moment, then Anne shifted her eyes, unable to hold his. After an uneasy silence, Aramis released her hand and she folded them on her lap.

They had not had the opportunity to be alone together since the night at the convent – and they hadn’t had much need for talk at the time. They barely knew each other, but neither could deny the attraction that pulled them toward each other like moths to a flame. Athos had done his best to keep him away from the palace and Anne had, for obvious reasons, kept herself apart from him for propriety’s sake. They could not take the chance anyone would overhear or see anything that could cast suspicion on the lineage of the Dauphin, and as hard as it had been, Aramis knew it had been worth the sacrifice simply to have his son in this world. But now, though he longed to hold her and touch her, he held himself back, knowing his advances would be rebuffed here. Even though they shared something amazing, he had no idea what to say to this woman who had borne his son. Neither of them knew a way past the obstacles that surrounded them, yet both were everlastingly bound to the other because of the tiny, fragile life their one night of passion had created.

“Motherhood becomes you,” he said, finally breaking the awkward stillness.

Anne’s face lit up at the thought of her son. “It is the most rewarding experience I could imagine,” she said, her eyes bright with emotion. “Just holding him in my arms, feeling his little body moving, his tiny fingers clasping mine, it just makes me feel so –“ she discerned the sadness in his smile and paused, one hand over her heart the other again taking his. “Oh, Aramis. I am so sorry. You have not even had the opportunity to lay eyes on him and here I am gushing like a child. How cruel of me.”

Aramis blinked rapidly, forcing back the tears that burned behind his eyes at her words. “On the contrary,” he said softly. He held her gaze, pouring all the love and gratitude he could into his words. “Seeing you so happy, seeing the love in your eyes, it lifts my heart. Even if I cannot share it with you, just hearing you speak of him…” His voice broke and he swallowed, closing his eyes against the rush of emotion he knew was apparent in their depths. “Thank you, for sharing this with me. I can never tell you how much it means to me.”

He opened his eyes, dismayed to see a tear fall from her lashes. He raised a hand to wipe it away and she took his hand in both of hers, cupping it to her face.

“I am sorry, Aramis. I know this is unfair.”

He smiled sadly, not wanting her to feel badly for a situation that was out of either of their control. “There is nothing to apologize for. You will simply have to love him enough for the both of us.”

She nodded, squeezing her eyes tight, letting the tears fall. A soft knock on the door interrupted the moment and she turned away, wiping her face with her handkerchief. Taking a deep breath, she stood and made her way to the large doors, opening them just a bit before sighing in relief and stepping back, allowing Porthos to poke his head into the room.

The big man looked from the Queen’s red-rimmed eyes to his friend’s sad smile.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” Anne said quickly. “Come in, Porthos.”

“Come in, Porthos,” Aramis waved a hand and carefully pushed himself up higher on the pillows. “Everything is fine.”

Porthos wasn’t a fool and from the looks on the faces of the two people before him, he knew things were far from fine, but he stepped into the room, moving aside as the Queen turned, her regal countenance once more intact.

“I hope your meeting with Captain Treville went well,” she offered, not waiting for an answer before making her way past the Musketeer to the door. “The King will want to be informed of any developments.” Her eyes softened as she returned her attention to Aramis, who was watching her, silent and intense, from across the room. “If it’s all right, I would like to stop back this afternoon to check on your condition, Monsieur.”

Aramis nodded slowly, his body relaxing into the soft mattress. “I shall look forward to your visit, Your Majesty.”

With a smile to Porthos, she walked into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

Porthos pursed his lips as he crossed the room and sank into the chair beside the bed. “You going to tell me what that was all about?”

Aramis took a deep breath and pushed it out through his nose, pressing his head back onto the pillow. “Why is it, my friend, that the things most worth having are forever out of my reach?”

Porthos’ eyes tracked back to the door. “Because you have a habit of reaching far too high.”

“Aim lower?”

“As hard as it will be. Much lower.”

“And if I can’t?” Aramis looked at his friend, resigned, hoping for an answer, but knowing there was none to have.

Porthos just shrugged, his eyes on the floor. “You don’t have a choice.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Madam Ferroche lived on a small farm just outside of the village with her three children. As they rode up to the small thatch-roofed house, d’Artagnan looked around at the sad state of the place, noting the holes in the roof that needed to be repaired and the broken fence that was barely able to corral the old horse tethered to a post next to the rickety old building that probably served as a barn and stable. It was obvious the family had hit hard times. There were a few chickens rooting about in the mud and a milk cow contentedly chewing its cud, slowly wandering up and down the fenced off yard. Despite their poverty, the woman had invited them inside when they’d introduced themselves as the King’s Musketeers, smoothing her unwashed hair back, making herself as presentable as possible. Born of good manners, she offered them bread and cheese as they had seated themselves at the long wooden table inside – a kindness they could obviously ill afford.

“Thank you, Madame, but we really just need to ask you a few questions about your husband.” Athos took a seat at the table and she joined them, shushing the two young children who looked on with wide-eyed wonder. They’d probably never seen a Musketeer before, d’Artagnan mused, and he gave them both a smile and a wave, sending them running from the house in a fit of giggles.

The woman’s eyes hardened immediately at the mention of her husband. “What’s he gone and done now?” She asked in a tone that told them she was not surprised to hear the man was in some kind of trouble. The anger surfaced quickly, but the hurt and sadness seem to overwhelm it almost immediately.

“He is dead.”

D’Artagnan closed his eyes and shook his head, dismayed at the directness of Athos’ statement. This woman had just lost her husband, and the Musketeer’s blunt statement was obviously meant to get a reaction from her in an attempt to ascertain whether or not she knew of, or was a part of, his plans. What reaction Athos was expecting, D’Artagnan had no idea, but the resigned acceptance in Madame Ferroche’s eyes told them she had expected the news. 

His heart ached dully for her, her expression telling him she now understood why they had ridden from Paris to speak with her. D’Artagnan didn’t believe she was a part of the plot, but it was obvious she’d known of her husband’s plans, and he felt sympathy for the reality she must now accept as hers. Athos was watching her with hooded eyes, showing no emotion, yet surely aware of the sorrow etched on her face. Sometimes the young Gascon wondered if Athos’ heart had been so damaged by his past that he was incapable of feeling any kind of empathy at all, but then he would see a flash of pain in the blue eyes when one of their brothers was in need and Athos would silently and stoically offer a strong shoulder, remaining by their side until the crisis had passed. It was as if the man had built an impenetrable barricade around himself, entrusting three people with the key, believing in them enough to know they would use it wisely. D’Artagnan felt honored to be one of those people, and it was that trust that allowed him to hold his tongue now and let Athos conduct the interview as he saw fit.

“I told him it was a fool’s errand,” she said with a shake of her head. Her eyes had softened at the news of her husband’s death, but d’Artagnan could see her stiffen. She raised her head, looking Athos in the eye with resolve. “What is it you would like to know?”

“So you were aware your husband was going to Paris to attack the King?”

She swallowed once and dropped her eyes, staring at her hands, folded on top of the table. “He was angry about the increase in our taxes. We were barely scraping by. Then a man showed up and told him he could change things. That it wasn’t the King they should condemn, but the man who’d corrupted him.” Her countenance was beginning to crack and d’Artagnan could see the tears forming in her eyes.

“Did you know this man?” he asked in a soft voice, causing her to look up at him with a tremulous smile. She shook her head.

“No. He wasn’t one of us, that’s for sure. He was higher born. A nobleman who was here stirring everyone up. He was going on about how the only man they’d been able to trust had been murdered and how the Crown was going to rob them blind now that he’d been replaced.”

“Who was this nobleman?” Athos pushed. “Did you hear his name? Can you describe him?”

She thought for a moment, working her throat to keep her emotions at bay. “I never heard his name, but he was a smaller fellow, fair with a scar right here.” She raised a hand to her face, drawing a line down her cheek with a dirt-encrusted nail. “He wore a cloak with a ruby clasp. I remember thinking that gem alone could feed my children for a month.”

“Rochefort,” Athos breathed the name in contempt.

D’Artagnan nodded in surprise. “You were right.”

Athos retrieved the letter from his belt and held it out to the woman, who looked at it suspiciously. “It is from your husband,” the Musketeer explained. “He apparently wanted you to know what had happened to him.”

Madam Ferroche stared at the missive for a few moments then shook her head. “He has left me here alone to feed three children with no means of support. That is all I need to know.”

Athos nodded and pushed himself from the table, letting the letter flutter to the wood. As he turned, he reached into his doublet and pulled out a small bag of coins, tossing it onto the table atop the parchment. “For your troubles,” he said, tipping his hat to the woman who stared back at him with wide eyes.

D’Artagnan quickly rose and followed the older man, grabbing the reigns of his horse as Athos circled his mount and placed a foot in the stirrup. “That was a decent thing to do,” he remarked, a grin on his face as he too mounted his horse. Perhaps his friend felt empathy after all.

“It was not her fault her husband was duped by someone as deceitful as Rochefort.” Athos turned his horse and headed away from the ramshackle home. “Besides, since we’ll be riding straight through to Paris, we’ll have little need of the money.”

D’Artagnan settled himself in the saddle then frowned as the meaning of his mentor’s words registered. “Wait,” he called to the departing Musketeer, “straight through? You mean we’re not stopping for supper?”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

It was early evening when Anne returned to the east wing of the palace, two of her personal guards in tow. She nodded to a guard who knocked on the door then stepped back, taking position against the wall just to the right of the entrance. When the door opened, Anne was greeted by a disheveled Porthos, who put a finger to his lips and opened the door wider; an invitation for her to enter.

She quietly slipped inside, her face dissolving into a fond smile as her eyes fell upon Aramis, lying atop the duvet dressed in a clean shirt and breeches. He was propped against the gilded headboard, supported by a mound of pillows, his long legs stretched along the mattress, crossed at the ankles. His hands rested against his chest, slowly rising and falling as he breathed evenly in sleep. Though there were still dark shadows beneath the long lashes, his color looked much better than before, his body relaxed.

“Daquin has had him up and about a few times today,” Porthos whispered, explaining the clothing and the fact he was lying on top of the duvet instead of tucked underneath it. “He’s moving, a bit slowly, but he seems to be better. Daquin thinks we’ll be able to take him back to the garrison as early as tomorrow.”

Anne’s heart fell, but she forced a smile on her face and met Portho’s gaze. “That is good news,” she responded, her voice soft, mimicking Porthos’ tone. “I’m sure he will be pleased to be free of this room.”

Porthos shrugged. “His room at the garrison isn’t nearly as comfortable.” He looked down at her and she could see the understanding in his eyes. “Nor the company quite so pleasant.” She blushed and lowered her gaze at the compliment. “of course, Aramis isn’t one to take to confinement for long. I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to make good his escape already.”

“I’m sure he would’ve tried if you weren’t here to take such good care of him,” Anne said, acknowledging how grateful she was for his diligence.

It was Porthos’ turn to blush. “He’d do the same for me,” he said truthfully. “For any of us.”

A loud rumble emanated from the big man’ stomach and Anne quickly covered her mouth to stifle her giggle.

Porthos’ face flushed deeper and he chuckled self-consciously. “Sorry about that, Your Majesty. It’s been a while since breakfast.”

“You poor man!” Anne’s eyes widened at the confession. “It’s nearly past supper. You must be famished!”

“I am a bit hungry, I guess.”

She motioned him toward the door. “Go to the kitchens. There is mutton and cakes left from the King’s repast.”

Porthos looked back toward Aramis, obviously reluctant to leave his friend, but another rumble from his belly had Anne laughing openly and laying a hand on his arm to guide him to the door. 

“He’ll be fine, Porthos, I promise. I will stay with him until you return.”

“If you’re sure?”

She smiled and nodded encouragingly. 

Porthos finally agreed. “I won’t be long, Your Majesty,” he said, opening the door and stepping out into the hallway.

Anne looked to the guard standing at attention to the left of the door. “Monsieur Porthos is in need of sustenance. Please see him to the kitchen and be sure he is given whatever he desires.” She turned back to Porthos. “Go. Eat. Take all the time you need. I will watch over him, you have my word.”

Porthos bowed graciously. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

As soon as the Musketeer was on his way, Anne returned to the room, leaving instructions for the remaining guard that no one was to disturb the sleeping Musketeer unless it was urgent. The guard silently acknowledged the command and Anne quickly moved back into the room and closed the door behind her. She didn’t engage the lock, confident her instructions would be carried out without question. The King and the Cardinal were in conference and the baby was asleep in the nursery. There was nowhere else she needed to be and no one who would have need of her for the next few hours. 

She quickly crossed to the bed and perched on the edge, her eyes raking over the handsome features of the man lying before her. If stolen moments were all that fate allowed, she would not waste any of them. She placed a hand on Aramis’ arm and leaned forward, whispering his name softly.

His eyes fluttered open and the smile that lit his face as he focused on her set her heart beating rapidly in her chest.

“I could get used to waking like this,” he mumbled, his voice heavy with sleep.

She smiled sadly. “I’m afraid our time is limited.”

He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. “Then we should not waste a moment of it.”

She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, as his dark eyes met hers, causing a shiver to run down her spine. She would give anything for the chance to fall into his arms once again, to have the freedom to accept his love and give hers in return. But it was too dangerous for either of them to give in to their desires and she knew her position was tenuous at best. There was little love for a Spanish queen and she could sense that many of the King’s confidants were waiting for any opportunity to discredit her. With Richelieu gone, her strongest fears had been laid to rest, but she still had to remain diligent – if not for her own sake, then for the Dauphin’s.

Though she knew it was impossible to give in to what they both wanted so desperately, Anne could give him something even more precious.

“Are you able to walk?”

Aramis pushed himself up further on the pillows, a wince marring his features when he pulled his wound.

“Daquin has been encouraging me to move around today,” he admitted. “But I doubt I’m up for a stroll around the palace, Your Majesty.” He grinned devilishly. “I much prefer our current location.”

She couldn’t help but sigh in pleasure. “As comfortable as it is,” she said, patting the mattress he was lying on, “I would like to show you something.”

“I am but your humble servant. I shall follow wherever you choose to lead.”

She moved from the edge of the bed and stood back, waiting patiently while he maneuvered himself to a sitting position, pausing for a moment to catch his breath as he leaned heavily on his arms.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?”

Aramis grinned, his right hand crossing his torso to press against his wound. “I’m fine,” he assured her. “It just takes me a moment to get used to the change in elevation.”

Anne moved closer, placing a hand on his arm. “Let me help.”

Aramis smiled and with a deep breath pushed himself from the bed, grabbing for her shoulder as his face paled and he swayed dangerously. She quickly placed an arm around his waist, steadying him, allowing him a moment to regain his equilibrium. After a few deep breaths, he opened his eyes and turned to her with a grin.

“That went much better than the last time.”

Anne raised her brows in silent question.

“Porthos, bless him, was close enough to catch me before I toppled to the ground in an undignified heap.”

Anne smiled and released him, stepping back as he found his balance, immediately regretting the loss of his warmth. “Porthos is convenient to have around.”

“Most of the time,” Aramis qualified. “What is it you would like to show me?”

“This way.” Anne took his hand and slowly stepped around the bed. Aramis moved stiffly, but didn’t look to be in too much pain. She regretted causing him any discomfort, but knew he would forget it once her surprise was revealed. He frowned as she led him to the far wall of the room, away from the massive doors, and she smiled in eager anticipation as she slid a heavy drape from its position and pressed against the panel hidden behind.

There was a click and the panel shifted beneath the pressure, revealing a narrow opening hidden behind. She stepped back as Aramis approached and he leaned his head through the opening. The passage behind the panel was tight but ran far off into the distance, lit at intervals by the soft glow of candles positioned on the floor. He turned to look at her, his eyes wide with wonder.

“The palace does hold many secrets. Where does it lead?”

“Many places,” Anne responded, her voice low and hushed. “But tonight, it leads to just one.”

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Secrets and Lies  
Chapter 5

Athos sighed in relief as the lights of Paris glowed on the horizon. They had ridden straight through, managing to cut a ten hour journey to just over eight. They’d stuck to the roads along the Siene. The back roads and trails were less traveled, but would increase their journey. Travelling along the main road was something they did not do often, finding the countryside less dangerous and more to their liking, but time was of the essence and Athos had decided it necessary to chance the heavier traffic than to delay their return.

He had tried to convince himself his sense of urgency stemmed from the threat Rochefort posed to Mazarin and, ostensibly, the King and Queen themselves, but eventually he’d had to admit to himself his need to see Rochefort punished was decidedly personal. 

Frederick had been a good man, a friend, and his disappearance had been a tragedy. Athos’ younger brother, Thomas, had been forced to spend more time with Rochefort than he, and it was Thomas who had initially been suspicious that the younger Rochefort had contributed to the true Comte’s demise. Athos had scoffed at first, having taken little notice of the young, fair haired boy in those days, but had not dismissed the notion entirely. As it turned out, Thomas seemed to have a knack for seeing the malevolence in people that Athos appeared to be blinded to.

It had been Rochefort’s lack of concern over his brother’s fate that had finally convinced Athos of his culpability. And knowing that he was closely associated with Cardinal Richelieu only further convinced the Musketeer that Thomas had been right all along. 

But this time Rochefort had overstepped his bounds. They had testimony he had been the one to instigate the attack, and his association with Cardinal Richelieu could no longer protect him. This time the man would pay for his audacity and Frederick would finally get justice.

“You’ve been quiet,” d’Artagnan spoke, his voice loud in the darkness. “Even for you.”

Athos snorted a laugh. “My apologies, d’Artagnan. My mind has been occupied with thoughts better left unexpressed.”

“About Rochefort?”

“Yes,” Athos admitted. “I was not aware how much I desire to see him pay for his crimes.”

“I’m sure the King will see that he’s a threat and act accordingly.”

“Let us hope so. But he has managed to escape punishment once. I just pray his conceit is enough to cause his downfall.”

“You think he’ll deny the charges?”

Athos nodded emphatically. “Of course. Comte de Rochefort is a man who feels he is above the restrictions the rest of us must face. It is that entitlement that allows him to act without concern for consequences.”

“Like killing his own brother.”

“Like killing his own brother,” Athos confirmed.

It sickened Athos that a man could turn against his own flesh and blood simply for money and position. He knew it was not uncommon for a second son to harbor jealousy, having seen the animosity between brothers play out many times in families with much wealth and power. Was it fair for one son to be entitled to everything simply because he was born first in line leaving the second and third with nothing? Had Thomas felt that way about him?

No. Thomas had loved him – he knew that for a fact. It was that love that had been the cause of his demise. If he hadn’t been suspicious of his new sister-in-law, if he hadn’t placed his brother’s standing above his own safety, he would still be alive today. It was his concern for his older brother that had led him to confront Anne – Milady -- and his desire to protect him that had led to his murder. 

He had sentenced his own wife to hang for her crimes, he could wish no less for Rochefort.

D’Artagnan had remained quiet for the last leg of their journey, the pace Athos had set finally taking its toll on the young Gascon’s normal exuberance. Athos glanced at his companion, taking note of the fatigue etched upon the young man’s features. He felt a momentary pang of guilt for pushing the lad so harshly, but reminded himself that d’Artagnan was a full-fledged member of the regiment now, and sometimes a Musketeer’s duty to the Crown outweighed his comfort. The young man deserved a good night’s rest, and Athos would see that he received it.

As they trod through the quiet streets of Paris, Athos heard d’Artagnan sigh in relief as the familiar arch of the garrison came into view.

“It feels good to be home,” d’Artagnan said quietly.

Athos smiled at the sentiment. “Indeed.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Captain Treville placed the quill down on his desk as he heard the arrival of riders in the courtyard below. Moving toward the open doorway, he stepped out onto the balcony, pleased to see Athos and d’Aragnan dismount. The men moved stiffly, and though it had been many years since he had ridden as long and hard as the two weary Musketeers, he could still commiserate over the misery two days on horseback could inflict upon the human body.

Athos glanced up as he handed over the reins of his mount to one of the stable boys and Treville nodded, knowing his lieutenant would be up directly to give his report. If he’d found something about the men who’d attacked, they would take it straight to the King despite the late hour. Louis had been very adamant, wanting those responsible brought to swift justice, needing to send a message to anyone who dare threaten him within the confines of his own home.

Treville moved back into his office as the sound of footsteps on the staircase echoed behind him. It wasn’t long before Athos entered the office followed closely by d’Artagnan. Athos stepped up to the desk as Treville sat in the chair behind it.

“It was Rochefort,” Athos stated without preamble.

“The Comte?” This was not what Treville had expected to hear. “Why on earth would he want to harm the Queen?”

“The Queen was not the target,” Athos explained. “Nor the King. Mazarin was his intended target.”

Treville motioned for them both to sit. They were exhausted, if the droop of their shoulders and the roughness of their voices was any indication.

“We tracked Ferroche to the village of Rouen on the Seine,” d’Artagnan took up the narrative. “We spoke with Madame Ferroche who told us Rochefort had come and stirred up the local farmers, convincing them the new First Minister was their enemy. They planned the attack at his suggestion.”

“And Rochefort was in the palace at the time,” Treville recalled. “He could have easily scouted the position of the guards to aid them in their advancement.” He shook his head at the boldness of the plan. “Did Madame Ferroche give you Rochefort’s name?”

Athos shook his head and held up a hand to stall the Captain’s rebuke. “She admitted to not hearing his name, but she did see the man and gave his description right down to the scar on his cheek.” He moved his thumb down his face in the same manner Madame Ferroche had when she had spoken to them that morning. “She agreed to travel to Paris to testify if necessary, but I doubt it will come to that.”

Treville took a deep breath and considered what he’d been told.

“I saw the Comte in the palace last evening, near the Cardinal’s offices.” Treville eyes narrowed as he recalled the way the man had avoided answering his questions concerning his late presence at the palace. Could he have been considering a more direct attempt of Mazarin? If what Athos said was true, the man was capable of such an act. But without proper proof, it was the word of a widow against his. He wasn’t sure if that would be enough to convince the King. “It would be best if we could get a confession from Rochefort.”

“The man is arrogant and overconfident. He has gotten away with murder before. I believe I know him well enough to incite him and force a declaration of guilt.”

“All right,” Treville agreed. “If he is still in Paris, I will have him summoned to the palace. We can confront him there and take what we know to the King.” He looked from one weary soldier to the other, his eyes softening as they slouched in the chairs. “You both look as if you could use some rest. Go and get something to eat. I will let you know when we’ve located Rochefort.”

Athos sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, squaring his shoulders in an attempt to conceal his fatigue. “Thank you, Captain, but if it’s all the same, we’d rather head to the palace now so that we can check on Aramis. Do you have word on his condition?”

At least Treville could give them some good news on that front. “He’s awake and doing well. Porthos is still with him, but has informed me the surgeon is hopeful Aramis can be moved back here in the next day or so.”

“Thank God,” d’Artagnan raised a hand and dropped it onto Athos’ shoulder, squeezing it in relief.

Athos grinned at the news. “That is good to hear, Captain.” He took a deep breath and released it before shifting his gaze to d’Artagnan, the news of their comrade’s recovery seeming to take some of the weight from his shoulders. “Actually, a hot meal sounds rather nice, don’t you agree?”

D’Artagnan’s smile was all the answer he needed. 

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis followed Anne through the passage, the stone floor cold against his stocking clad feet. It occurred to him he probably should have taken a moment to pull on his boots, but considering how the noise would’ve echoed off the stone walls and increased their chances of being detected, it was doubtless a wise decision to forego their comfort for stealth. The candles were laid out, lighting their path, and Aramis noted the other corridors they passed remained dark and ominous. Clearly Anne had planned this, chancing they would be left alone. He had no idea what she had in mind – although his own mind had been able to come up with a few entertaining notions – but he was certain their time was much too limited for any of the lascivious scenarios in his head to play out. Besides, this was the most he’d moved about in three days and his body was making its displeasure known. His side was aching dully, and a sheen of sweat had broken out on his brow. Wherever Anne was taking him, he hoped they arrived soon, or he wasn’t entirely sure he would be capable of making the return trip.

Finally, they approached a door set in the stone wall and Anne stopped, looking up at him with excitement gleaming in her eyes. Before he could voice a question as to their location, she placed a finger to her lips, indicating silence, then turned and slowly opened the door. The room was blocked by another heavy drape, which she reached out and moved aside, letting him step into the softly lit room beyond.

Towels and linens lined some carts against the wall, and panels of silken material fell from the center of the ceiling, held up half way down by braided cords attached to hooks above. The panels formed a snug little tent, an intricately carved bassinette nestled in the center.

It was the nursery.

Aramis’ eyes were transfixed by the sight before him. The glow of the lamps flickered, graceful shadows dancing on the walls, adding to the charming ambience. He realized he’d forgotten to breathe, his mouth gaping at the sight before him and he turned to Anne just as a soft gurgle came from the bassinette.

“Go to him, Aramis” she urged softly. “Go see our son.”

He couldn’t move at first, his feet stuck to the floor as if he were standing in tar. Another noise, more like a sigh, drifted to his ears and his feet were covering the short distance before his mind had even realized he’d moved. As he approached the bassinette, he slowed, almost tip-toeing so as not to startle the baby. Leaning over the cradle, his breath caught in his throat as he took his first look at the child, his precious face relaxed in slumber.

He felt Anne beside him and reached out, taking her hand as they stood together, looking down on the life their union had created.

“He’s beautiful,” Aramis whispered, afraid of waking the sleeping infant. Though he longed to hold his son in his arms, smell his sweet scent, see the innocent eyes looking back at him, he didn’t dare wake him. He smiled as the baby’s nose twitched, his mouth scrunching up as he wriggled within the confines of his blankets.

“He’s perfect,” Anne agreed. “He will grow to be a strong, handsome, brave man, just like his father.”

Aramis squeezed her hand in gratitude at the compliment, but could not take his gaze from the face of the baby sleeping peacefully in the bassinette before him. How was it possible to feel so much love for a person you had just laid eyes on for the first time? Aramis could feel his heart swell with emotion, knowing he would lay down his life to protect this child for reasons that had little to do with duty or honor.

The baby’s brow creased and he frowned, moving about as if something had disturbed his peaceful slumber. Aramis reached out a hand, gently stroking the warm, soft cheek.

“Duermete angelito, es hora de sonar…” he began to croon in a soft voice, his finger lovingly caressing the baby’s tender skin. “Des cansa ya chaquito, no vayas a llorar…” He let his voice drift off as the child settled, aware of Anne’s arms holding tight to his. She looked up at him inquiringly and he blushed, shrugging a shoulder in embarrassment. “It was a lullaby my mother used to sing to me as a child. I haven’t thought about it in a very long time. I’m surprised I remembered the words.”

“It was beautiful,” Anne said wistfully. “I’ve always had a fondness for Spanish lullabies.”

“Do you sing to him?”

She nodded. “But only in French, especially when there are others around.”

Aramis gave her an inquiring glance. 

“Considering the strain between the countries, it hasn’t been easy being a Spanish queen.”

“But aren’t your ladies-in-waiting satisfactory?”

Anne sighed, letting her hands drop from his arm. “They are all fine ladies, and provide adequate service.”

“Still there is no one you can trust, no one you consider an ally?” She shook her head and smiled sorrowfully, and Aramis found himself saddened by the revelation. Even when one had all the finery money and position could avail, it was terribly lonely without family or friends to hold your hand when needed. 

He had Porthos, Athos and now d’Artagnan, not to mention Captain Treville and the other men of the regiment. He knew his brothers would always be there for him to lean on, always have his back when times were tough, but, he wondered, who did Anne have to talk to when she was sad and alone?

“If I may make a suggestion?” She gazed up at him with hopeful eyes, encouraging him to continue. “There is a young woman I know, a friend.”

“A friend?” She looked at him askance. 

He grinned and tilted his head, acknowledging the irony of the statement. “On my honor, Madame Bonicieux is a friend in the strictest sense of the word.”

Anne easily accepted his oath. “And what makes you think this Madame Bonicieux would be someone I could trust?”

Aramis wrapped his arms around her, letting his gaze travel back to the sleeping infant in the crib. “She is a woman who speaks her mind and is always ready to lend a helping hand to those in need. She is a friend to the Musketeers and has aided us numerous times simply because we ask, expecting nothing for herself.”

“She sounds like someone with dubious judgment,” Anne teased.

Aramis squeezed her until she giggled. “Constance is a good woman. Like so many women, she was forced into a loveless marriage, but her heart belongs to a Musketeer.”

“A Musketeer? How scandalous,” Anne said in mock indignation. “And what would make you believe we could have anything in common?”

Aramis looked down on her as she raised her face up toward his. “I believe if anyone could lend an understanding shoulder, it would be Constance.” 

“Then perhaps I shall speak with Madam Bonicieux,” she smiled hopefully. “It seems we may be able to commiserate with one another in some areas.”

He leaned down and kissed her tenderly. What they’d had before was passion, two people in need of each other, burning hot, uncaring of the consequences, filling a void they both desperately needed filled.

This was something different. 

It was still passion, but tender, sweet; like the warm embers remaining after the flame had flared to life. This was love. Something neither of them believed they would ever find. Something both knew they could never have. But for just this moment, the world was exactly what they wanted it to be. They were a family and it was a moment that could sustain them for a lifetime.

As they broke apart, Anne gazed up at him, her eyes hooded, her lips moist from his kiss. 

“I’m sorry, Aramis.” Tears sprang to her eyes and she blinked, causing one drop to fall down her cheek.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he assured her, wiping the tear away with the pad of his thumb. “No matter what happens in the future, you’ve given me something I can hold onto.”

She smiled and laid her head back against his chest. “I wish it could be more.”

Aramis tightened his arms around her and let his head rest against her hair, His eyes drifted to the beautiful, innocent face of the sleeping child, and he couldn’t help but wonder if it would be enough.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Secrets and Lies  
Chapter 6

Porthos couldn’t wipe the grin from his face as he left the kitchen, his stomach full, his body recharged from the forced days of rest at Aramis’ side. He was happy to see his friend feeling better, knowing their time of leisure at the palace was almost at an end. The King’s hospitality was not infinite and despite Louis’ gratitude for their actions, Porthos was wary of overstaying their welcome.

With Aramis’ wound healing well and his strength increasing, Daquin had given his blessing for the marksman to return to his own quarters, promising to check on him later in the week to monitor his progress. It would still be some time before Aramis would be strong enough to return to duty, but just having him back at the garrison would be enough for now.

Of course, Aramis may not be in complete agreement. The near tragedy had been a blessing in disguise for the Spaniard, giving him a legitimate excuse to be within the confines of the palace and opportunity to spend time with the Queen. It had probably been a mistake on Porthos’ part to allow them so much time alone together, but she was the Queen, and he was duty-bound to obey her commands – at least that would be the excuse he would give to Athos when the older Musketeer inevitably chastised him for his lack of judgment.

It had been obvious from the moment he had seen her expression in the ballroom that Queen Anne had been terrified for her Musketeer. Her eyes had begged him to do something, anything to help Aramis, her fear of losing him frighteningly apparent on her face. Porthos wasn’t sure if her seemingly magnified alarm was his own perception borne of knowing her true connection to Aramis, or was truly appropriate of the situation. He prayed if anyone else had noted her panic, they would consider it a reasonable response to the attack and not a more personal fear for the man who’d been bleeding in front of her.

As he turned a corner to make his way back to the East wing, he heard a familiar voice call his name and he stopped, his smile widening, waiting for his fellow Musketeers to close the distance between them.

“Athos, d’Artagnan.” He took both of their hands in turn, pumping them enthusiastically. “It’s good to see you, my friends. I trust your mission was successful?”

“Indeed,” Athos returned his smile with a subdued one of his own. “Captain Treville told us Aramis is recovering well?”

Porthos nodded. “He’s been up and about some today. Daquin has deemed him fit enough to be moved back to the garrison tomorrow.”

Athos sighed and clapped a hand on Porthos’ shoulder. “That is good news.”

“Very good news,” d’Artagnan agreed. “Is he awake? Can we see him?”

Porthos’ smile dimmed and he shifted on his feet, his eyes darting to Athos sheepishly. “He was sleepin’ when I left him a while ago… with the Queen…”

Athos’ brows shot up but he held his rebuke, instead drawing a deep breath in through his nose. “Then the three of us descending upon him may be… irresponsible.” The older man’s tone was even, but Porthos understood the intended admonishment. “We are awaiting Treville and the Comte de Rochefort. Once they’ve arrived we will be presenting our findings to the King and the Cardinal.” He stared levelly at Porthos. “Perhaps you could look in on our friend and see if he is available to join us?”

“Ahhh, yeah,” Porthos rolled his eyes but nodded slowly. “I suppose I could do that.”

“Good,” Athos forced his smile. “We look forward to seeing you both shortly.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos approached the door, nodding to the guard who still remained on duty. With a deep breath, he rapped, smiling nervously at the guard before opening the door a crack and peeking inside,

To his relief, the bed was vacant.

It would have been incredibly embarrassing to walk in on Aramis and the Queen of France… he couldn’t even bring himself to finish the thought.

He squeezed into the room and quickly closed the door behind him. His relief immediately turned to confusion as his eyes roamed the large room – the large unoccupied room – before him. He leaned back against the door, momentarily considering opening the door and inquiring about the whereabouts of the Queen, but concluded that if the guard who was responsible for guarding Anne was still standing his post outside, he, in all likelihood, still believed the Queen to be inside the room.

Which she wasn’t.

Porthos understood that he was not the most intellectual of his comrades, but he wasn’t a fool. If the guard remained outside the door, then Aramis and the Queen must have left through a different door. Except there was no other door from this room.

Just as an ache pulsed behind his eyes, he heard a soft hiss as if something was sliding against the stone floor. One of the draperies against the far wall billowed and, as if by magic, Queen Anne stepped out from behind it followed closely by the missing Musketeer. Neither seemed to notice him at first, their eyes on each other. They were both smiling like idiots, hands clasped together, faces flushed.

Straightening up from his slouch against the door, Porthos cleared his throat loudly, causing them both to jump and drop their hands to their sides.

Porthos bowed to the Queen, simultaneously giving his grinning friend an exasperated look.

“Porthos, “ Aramis moved to the side of the bed and gingerly lowered himself down. “I wasn’t expecting you back quite so soon.”

“Obviously.”

Anne stepped forward, her regal air in place as if two people coming out of the wall was an everyday occurrence. “I hope you found all you desired in the kitchens, Monsieur.”

Porthos nodded. “I was well taken care of, Your Highness.”

Anne dipped her head graciously and crossed the room, knocking to indicate she was ready to leave. As the guard opened the door, she turned back and gave Aramis a sweet smile. “I’m pleased you are feeling better, Monsieur Aramis. I will leave you in your friend’s capable hands.”

Aramis returned the smile. “Thank you, Your Majesty. You visit has been… more than I could’ve ever hoped.”

With another regal dip of her head, she swept through the doorway followed by the guard.

As the door clicked shut behind her, Porthos stalked toward the bed, passing his friend and dropping down into the chair. “It looks like I wasn’t the only one who was well taken care of,” he growled.

“Porthos,” Aramis chided, his smile firmly in place. “Nothing untoward happened. Do you think me a fool?”

Porthos studied him for a moment before responding. “No, I think you’re playin’ with fire. What was that?” he asked, tilting his head toward the secret door. “Where the hell did you get off to?”

Aramis shifted on the bed, slowly levering himself back onto the pillows propped against the headboard. His eyes lost focus and his smile became wistful. “She took me to see him, Porthos.” He turned to his friend, his eyes shining in the flickering candlelight. “He’s beautiful.”

Porthos sighed. He was happy to see Aramis look so content, but it only increased his fear for his friend. It was obvious Aramis’ heart was wholly lost to the Dauphin. He had already believed the child his, and now there would be no way to convince him otherwise. He may be able to conceal his love for Anne under the guise of duty, but no one would mistake that look in his eyes for anything but a father’s love. Aramis’ penchant for giving his whole heart was something Porthos had always admired, but it was also his friend’s greatest weakness, one that would ultimately lead to his downfall.

Athos was going to kill them both.

“Athos and d’Artagnan have returned.” Porthos turned away, his voice even, unable to look upon his friend’s blissful countenance any longer. 

Aramis stared for a moment before averting his gaze. “Did they find what they were looking for?” All traces of the previous joy were gone from his voice and Porthos felt a rush of guilt for denying him this bliss.

Porthos nodded. “We’re to meet them in the King’s courtroom, if you feel up to it after your… outing.”

Aramis took a deep breath, his hand going to his wounded side. “I believe I can manage.”

Stiffly, he maneuvered himself back to the edge of the bed and reached down for his boots. Seeing his difficulty, Porthos crouched down to help, then sat back, his head bowed, considering what to say to break the tense silence.

Aramis waited quietly.

“I’m happy for you, ‘Mis,” Porthos said finally. Looking up, he was pleased to see a shadow of the smile return to his friend’s face. “I just don’t want to see you hurt, is all.”

Aramis nodded, his expression one of fond exasperation. “I know, my friend.” He raised a hand and placed in on Porthos’ shoulder. “And I appreciate you looking out for me. But…” he took a deep breath, his smile returning full force, “it was a moment I shall cherish for the rest of my life. Please, share it with me, just for now.”

Porthos patted his friend’s arm before rising to his feet and helping Aramis to stand. “I’ll expect you to tell me all about it, mon frere – after we meet with the King.” At the Spaniard’s emphatic nod, Porthos huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes. “And do me a favor, will ya? Stop grinning like a lovesick fool? No wounded man should be so happy.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Treville entered the King’s outer chambers just as Athos and d’Artagnan found their way from the East wing. Looking around, Athos was disappointed to see the Captain alone.

“Where is Rocheforte?”

Treville held up a hand. “He’s being escorted as we speak. The Comte did not look favorably upon the request for his presence.”

D’Aatagnan snorted a laugh. “That sounds like someone with a guilty conscience to me.”

Athos pursed his lips, his eyes on the door leading from the portico. “I would agree if I believed Rochefort truly had a conscience.”

Footsteps echoing on the pathway outside heralded the arrival of the man in question.

As the guard led the short, blond man through the archway, Rochefort’s eyes locked with Athos, resentment clouding his face.

“This is what I would expect from you, Le Fere,” he spat. Dismissing Athos with a sneer, he turned to Treville and glared at him indignantly. “I resent being treated like a common criminal, Captain. I demand to see the King!”

Treville bowed stiffly, his demeanor one of calm acceptance. “I am happy to accommodate, Comte. We are waiting for His Majesty now.”

Taken aback by the Captain’s easy acceptance, Rochefort squared his shoulders and turned his attention back to Athos. “What is this about? You Musketeers have no authority over me.”

Athos inclined his head in agreement. “That may be true, Comte, but we are responsible for the security of the King and have the power to bring to justice any and all parties we deem to be a threat to that security.”

“I am no threat to the King.”

“Perhaps not, but we have reason to believe you incited the men who attacked the palace.”

Rochefort snorted derisively, continuing his litany of denial. “That is preposterous. You have no evidence to support this ridiculous theory. If you recall, I shot the bandit who was trying to kill you. I saved your life!”

“You eliminated the last man you believed could connect you to the crime,” Athos corrected. “Unfortunately for you, there are others back in Rouen who can identify you.”

“No man in Rouen will speak against me.”

Before anyone could respond, Porthos entered the hallway, leading a pale but very much alive Aramis. The latter was moving slowly, his right hand pressing against his left side, his eyes pinched in pain, but he was smiling as he met his friends’ gazes, obviously as happy to see them as they were to see him.

With a glance at Treville, Athos followed d’Artagnan across the short distance to greet their wounded comrade in private.

“Aramis!” d’Artagnan clapped a hand on the Spaniard’s shoulder. “It is good to see you, You look much better than the last time we laid eyes on you.”

Athos stopped in front of the wounded man, his eyes raking over him head to toe. “Much better,” he agreed, “But still in need of rest.”

Aramis tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Nothing a few days of peace and quiet won’t mend.”

“Both plentiful back at the garrison.”

Aramis’ eyes widened at the warning in Athos’ tone and exchanged a glance with Porthos who simply shrugged in response. 

“I bet you’ll miss the luxury of the palace, though,” d’Artagnan teased innocently

Porthos coughed to cover his laugh and Athos rolled his eyes. “More than you know,” Aramis agreed, wistfully slapping the young man on the back. “More than you know.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

It wasn’t long before they were brought before the King. Louis was perched upon his high-backed chair, Anne seated at his left, Cardinal Mazarin standing slightly behind to his right. The monarch leaned forward, obviously eager to get to the matter at hand.

“Captain Treville, you have news of the unsavory attack on my palace?”

Treville stepped forward, bowing slightly. “Yes, your Majesty.” He indicated for Athos and d’Artagnan to step forward. “It was these men who uncovered the plot that led to the attack. I will let them explain their findings.”

“Very well,” Louis turned his limited attention to Athos. “Please, tell me what you have learned.”

“We discovered the identity of one of the bandits through a letter we found on his person. The letter was addressed to his wife explaining what had happened in case he failed to return. We tracked down the Madame and learned the men of the area had been incited to attack by none other than the Comte de Rochefort.”

“Lies,” Rochefort broke in, twisting away from the guard who had been holding him back. “These are all lies, Your Majesty. I am loyal to the Crown and would never –“

“Will someone please silence this man?” Louis commanded.

“With pleasure.” Porthos drew his main gauche and placed it menacingly against the smaller man’s neck. “I believe my friend was talkin’,” he growled at the Comte.

Athos nodded his appreciation before continuing.

“As I was saying, Your Majesty. The bandit’s widow was able to describe the man who’d provoked the men of the village to take such drastic action. She described the Comte right down to the scar on his cheek and the ruby clasp on his cloak.”

Louis sat back, his eyes shifting to Rochefort. After a few moments, he waved a hand, ordering Porthos to remove the knife from the Comte’s neck.

“What do you have to say for yourself, Comte?”

Rochefort physically composed himself, shaking off the larger Musketeers grip and straightening his cloak. “I do not deny speaking with the men of Rouen, Your Majesty. They were already angry at the thought of their substantial taxes being raised. But, I assure you, it was never you they intended to harm.” His narrow eyes shifted to Mazarin, still standing next to Louis’ throne and he raised a hand to point dramatically at the Cardinal. “The men of Rouen were loyal to the King and to Cardinal Richelieu. Their intent was to punish the man responsible for the Cardinal’s murder.”

Mazarin smiled coldly, laughing as he nodded toward Aramis who was leaning against d’Artagnan for support. “Then it looks as if they succeeded in their quest.” 

Athos realized Mazarin wasn’t looking at Rochefort, but past him and followed the Cardinal’s line of sight to Aramis. The wounded Musketeer stared back, apprehension showing in his dark eyes.

“Aramis had nothing to do with the Cardinal’s death,” Like Athos, Anne had understood Mazarin’s accusation and immediately came to Aramis’ defense.

Louis took her hand and squeezed it affectionately. “The Queen is quite right, Cardinal. We have already made it very clear that Captain Treville and his men are above suspicion in this incident.”

Mazarin bowed his head, a smile of triumph playing on his lips. “As you wish, Sire. My apologies, Monsieur Aramis.” He dipped his head to the Musketeer before turning to Anne. “I regret that my insistence has upset you, Your Majesty.”

Anne didn’t respond, but sat back, carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone else in the courtroom.

“Now,” Louis redirected their attention back to the matter at hand. “It seems the Comte has just confessed to the crime.” He leaned back and tilted his head back toward Mazarin. “Since it seems you were the one he deemed to harm, Cardinal, I believe it should be you who decides his fate.”

Mazarin looked down his nose at Rochefort, his eyes narrowing as he took in the angry man before him. “It seems the Comte needs to learn his place. I would suggest his lands and title be revoked and returned to the Crown as well as five years in the bastille.”

Louis considered the sentence for a moment then nodded his approval. “The Cardinal has spoken. The sentence will be carried out immediately.” He waved a hand as if dismissing something distasteful. “Take him away.”

Athos watched as Rochefort was led away, sighing in satisfaction as the man glared at him from over his shoulder. He could not find it in him to feel any kind of sympathy for the man. It would be difficult for someone of Rochefort’s breeding inside Paris’ best known prison, but it was no less than he deserved. It had been a long time coming, but Athos prayed Frederick’s spirit could rest easy now that justice had been served.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

As they made their way from the court, Louis was called aside by one of his ministers, bidding Anne to await him near the door. As she stood alone, Mazarin approached and she reluctantly raised her eyes, shivering at the cold grin on the Cardinal’s face.

“I would like to take the opportunity to apologize once again, Your Majesty,” he said reverently. “I did not mean to offend you.”

“I accept your apology, Cardinal.” She smiled cordially, expecting the man to take his leave, but he hesitated as if there were something else he wanted to say. Anne sighed and let her gaze shift to Louis, who was still conferring with the minister. Mazarin didn’t make her as uncomfortable as she’d been in Richelieu’s presence, but there was something about him that made her wary.

“Your patronage of the Musketeer Aramis is admirable,” Mazarin continued, “but, if I may caution Your Majesty, you should take care that it is not taken the wrong way.”

Anne looked at him sharply. “I don‘t think I like your insinuation, Cardinal.”

Mazarin held up a hand in supplication. “I intend no disrespect. I, of course, understand your devotion is genuine, but…”

Anne’s heart was beating rapidly in her chest, her breath catching in her throat. 

“… there are others who would see your attachment as something more… dissolute.”

Anne gasped, her eyes flaring at the audacity of the man. “I think you forget your place, Cardinal.”

Mazain immediately backed down, bowing contritely. “Again, my apologies. I am only concerned for your welfare. If you will excuse me.”

Anne watched him go, a hand to her chest, trying to control her panic. Did Mazarin know? Did he suspect or was her guilt making her overly anxious? Either way, she now had to consider him a threat. To her, to the Dauphin, and to Aramis. 

She jumped, startled when Louis placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Are you all right, my dear?”

She feigned a smile, hoping her husband would not see past her deception. “Of course, Sire. I’m just tired. If you don’t mind, I’d like to retire to my chambers for a rest.”

“Of course,” Louis said bringing her hand to his lips for a chaste kiss. He grinned up at her through dark lashes. “May I come to you later?”

She nodded, her heart sinking. Her mind flashed to Aramis’ handsome face, longing to feel his arms around her, but beginning to accept it was a dream she would never know again. It couldn’t be. Not if they were to survive. She shook the vision of the strong, charming Musketeer from her head and tried to return her husband’s look of affection, resigned to her duty as Queen. “I shall look forward to it, Sire.”

Louis kissed her cheek and she hurried down the hall.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

As soon as he stepped into his office, Cardinal Mazarin knew he wasn’t alone. Although it had been many years since he’d lived the life of a soldier, he was proud that he still retained some of the skills he’d honed throughout an illustrious career as a warrior for the Vatican. The scent of jasmine lingered in the air and he smiled as the rustle of fabric heralded the approach of his favorite agent.

“You are far too beautiful a woman to be confined to the shadows, Milady.”

The brunette slinked out from the dark recesses of the room, sliding lithely across the stone floor. 

“Considering my enemies, the shadows are a more comfortable place for the moment.”

Mazarin smiled as she brushed a hand across his back. “Ah, my dear. You worry too much. You are now under my protection. You need fear no one.”

Milady tilted her head in appreciation. “While I welcome your assurances, Your Eminence, I have heard such promises before – most recently from your predecessor. I find it prudent to remain cautious despite your pledge of protection.”

Mazarin couldn’t argue with her logic. “Very well, Milady. Someday you will tell me who has scarred you so.”

Although she knew he was speaking figuratively, Miady’s hand went to her neck, rubbing against the silk ribbon that hid the faint mark beneath. “Someday, Cardinal. But not today.”

“As you wish.”

Milady gracefully slipped onto the upholstered chair in front of the Cardinal’s desk, looking at him expectantly. “I assume you did not ask me here for small talk?”

“Right to the point, yes?” Mazarin circled the elaborate wooden desk and took a seat in the high-backed chair behind it. “That is one of the things I find refreshing about you.”

She smiled demurely at the compliment.

“I assume you know what went on inside the King’s courtroom?” 

Milady had been able to find many passages that allowed her to move about the castle freely without being seen. He knew she had been a favorite of Richelieu’s, entrusted with many secrets, some of which he was still learning. The woman was an asset, but he found himself reluctant to trust her completely. Despite her eagerness to fulfill the tasks he’d requested of her, Milady de Winter was a woman shrouded in mystery, an intriguing mix of allure and danger that appealed to his darker ambitions.

Milady nodded her head and straightened her voluptuous skirt. “I know that you’ve let a golden opportunity slip through your fingers.”

Mazarin’s brows rose, intrigued. “And which opportunity would this be?”

“Rochefort,” she responded. “He’s a fool, but he is a loyal fool. And he’s someone who could be of use to us.”

“He tried to have me killed,” Mazarin argued.

Milady shrugged her creamy shoulders. “Only because he believes you orchestrated Richelieu’s death.”

Mazarin chuckled humorlessly. “In case you’ve forgotten, Milady. I did.”

She nodded, arching one brow as she looked at him pointedly. “He doesn’t have to know that,” she offered. “We just need to give him a different target for his aggression.”

“And just who would you suggest?”

“The Musketeer. Aramis.”

Mazarin shook his head. “The King and the Queen have placed Aramis above suspicion – though I believe the Queen’s interest in her stalwart champion runs deeper than she would like to admit.”

“Do you think they’re having an affair?”

Mazarin sighed and sat back, leaning an elbow on the arm of his chair. “I don’t know. There’s something there, but I don’t have any proof.”

“It’s no matter. I can convince Rochefort to join our side. He has no love for the Musketeers, especially Aramis’ friend, Athos. It shouldn’t be difficult to turn his allegiance if he’s promised an opportunity to retaliate against the men who discredited him.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to control him?”

Milady laughed deep in her throat, the sound exciting him despite his knowledge of her nature. “I can handle Rochefort. I can have him eating out of my hand. Just say the word and he’s ours.”

Mazarin studied her face, taking in the confidence shining in her eyes. Milady was so sure of herself and he found her conviction intoxicating.

“Fine,” he agreed. “I hope you can sway him from his vengeance.”

“I don’t intend to sway his retribution,” she said, rising from the chair and heading for the side door, “simply redirect it.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Anne hadn’t realized she found her way to the portico that ran alongside the east wing of the palace until she felt the cool spring air on her face. She’d spent the previous night lost in thought after the King had retired to his own chambers after –

She shivered. She’d rather not think of what had happened right now. 

As she approached the archway, she was surprised to see Aramis and Porthos slowly making their way from the hallway. Aramis was fully dressed, though he was carrying his weapons belt in deference to his wounded side. She had been aware that Daquin was allowing the Musketeer to leave his care, she had just not accepted that it would mean he’d be leaving hers.

“Your Majesty,” Porthos bowed as she approached. She clasped the golden cross she wore, knowing its twin was nestled against Aramis’ chest.

“Porthos,” she smiled, tilting her head in greeting. She let her gaze slide to the other man, standing quietly next to his friend. “I am pleased to see you looking so well,” she said softly. 

Aramis bowed slightly. “It is because of the excellent care you generosity afforded me, Your Majesty.”

They stood in awkward silence for a moment before Porthos cleared his throat and excused himself, claiming to have forgotten his hat in Aramis’ room. The fact that his hat was clenched in his hand was not mentioned by anyone. As soon as the big man was gone, Aramis stepped closer, looking at her in concern.

“Is there something wrong? Has someone upset you?”

Anne started, chastising herself for being read so easily. She did not want him to know of the Cardinal’s insinuations. After the threat of Richelieu had been removed, they had both breathed a bit easier. It wouldn’t be fair, especially in his weakened state, to burden him with this new threat.

“I’m fine,” she assured him, calling upon the acting skills she’d honed since childhood. “It’s you I am worried about. Are you sure you should be moving so much this soon?”

Aramis smiled softly at the concern in her voice. “I’ve been given leave by Daquin to return to the garrison. Although it is not quite as grand, it is home. Porthos will make sure I rest even if he has to sit on me to make it happen.”

She laughed, knowing it was what he had hoped for, but she knew her forced cheerfulness wouldn’t fool him.

“There is something, isn’t there?” He moved closer and she took a step back, her heart breaking at the bewilderment on his face.

“I’m sorry, Aramis,” she said in a choked voice. “But this cannot continue.”

He shook his head, uncertain, his eyes widening in confusion at her behavior. “What cannot continue? I don’t understand.”

She turned from him, not able to meet his dark eyes. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

He reached out and she felt his hand brush her arm but she shook her head and stepped out of his reach. “I am happy you will recover.” She forced herself to look at him, her throat tightening at his forlorn expression. “And I’m glad I was able to give you a moment with your son, but it must end here, Aramis. He can never be yours. He can never be ours. For his sake, and for your own, you must find a way to let us go.”

Aramis swallowed hard and when he spoke his voice was choked with emotion. “You can’t ask that of me.”

“We have no choice.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his head in defeat. “Do you regret what we did?”

She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “Never. And I will think of you whenever I see our son smile. But…” she stopped as her voice broke and she fought for control. She knew she was shattering this good man’s heart, but she would rather have him alive and heartbroken than dead and ruined. “Goodbye, Aramis.” She placed a kiss on his cheek, knowing it was a risk, but finding she could not leave without one last touch. As she walked away she tasted the salt of his tear on her lips, knowing it was a choice she would forever regret.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos hung back until the Queen was out of sight, ducking into an archway further down the portico. He looked back at his friend’s dejected form, sighing as he realized what had just transpired.

Though she had done what she’d had to do – what he’d hoped she’d do – Porthos still felt a surge of anger at the Queen for hurting his friend. Aramis stood, his head down, his eyes closed tightly, his hat and belt clutched tightly in his fists. It wasn’t enough the man was still in pain physically, now he was wounded emotionally and bleeding out right before his eyes. 

Slowly he made his way across the walkway, making as much noise as possible to announce his approach.

He dipped his head to get a look at Aramis’ face, his heart breaking to see the devastation written on the familiar features.

“Aramis?”

The Spaniard opened his eyes and Porthos breath caught in his throat at the grief in the dark depths.

“Oh, ‘Mis,” he breathed, not knowing how to help his friend. He put a hand around his shoulders and pulled him close, running a hand across the array of curls on the bowed head. “What d’ya say we get out of here, huh?”

He felt the head beneath his hand move and he took it as agreement. Reaching down, he pulled Aramis hat from his hand, wincing at how misshapen it had become. He straightened the felt as best he could and gently placed it on Aramis’ head, pulling the brim down low to hide his eyes from anyone who may pass. 

Then, with a hand around his friend’s shoulders, he led him home.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Milady stepped up to the iron bars, a perfumed handkerchief held to her face to disguise the rank smell of the prison. As the guard unlocked the cell door, she stepped inside, nodding to him to leave. Reluctantly, the guard shrugged and followed her orders.

As she stepped into the light shining down from the high thin window, her eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness and she directed her attention to the shadowy shape sitting against the dank wall.

“Comtess de la Fere,” a scratchy voice drawled from the shadows. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Milady removed the handkerchief and smiled, taking in the disheveled form of the former Comte de Rochefort sprawled on the dirt floor of the cell. His hair was greasy and matted and his clothes were encrusted with filth. He looked defeated, yet his voice still dripped with contempt.

“I’m no longer a comtess,” Milady corrected. “My husband ordered my death. As far as I’m concerned, that nullifies any marriage vows I once made.”

Rochefort nodded. “Perhaps we have some things in common. It seems neither of us has had the good luck to best your husband.”

She stepped closer and squatted down directly in front of him. Her eyes glittered and one corner of her mouth rose in a devious grin. “I think our luck is about to change.”

The End…. For now. 

 

So there you have it! Story no. 2 finished. The next installment in the arc “Where the Heart Is” is complete and will be up as soon as it is edited and polished, so stay tuned! I would love to hear any comments or questions you may have, so feel free to let me know how I’m doing. Thanks for reading!


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